


A Century of Sleep, Vexed to Nightmare

by Firefly_Ca



Series: A Century of Sleep [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (hopefully), (kind of), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, Bullying, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Demisexuality, Historical Accuracy, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Racist Language, Recovery, Reform School, Rescue, Reunions, Slight Codependency, Torture, Up all night to get Bucky, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 71,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firefly_Ca/pseuds/Firefly_Ca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, when they’re talking about his work with the V.A., Sam mentions that bad memories have a way of burrowing themselves deep down inside a person’s mind, waiting for an unguarded moment to push their way back to the surface. At the time, Steve couldn't help but think it was unfair, that the worst moments of your life are the ones that never leave you. But memories are apparently complicated, especially when they get tangled together with emotion. Sometimes the memories that cause the most pain come hand-in-hand with the key to putting yourself back together. </p>
<p>(A.K.A. AU where Steve and Bucky meet in a reform school, bad things happen, things get better, then worse, time passes, angst again, and finally violence of the intensely satisfying variety.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Century of Sleep, Part One

**Author's Note:**

> **READ THIS FIRST!!!**
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> I'm sorry. First of all, this story starts out SO MUCH darker than what I was intending, or at least, it's darker in a way I wasn't anticipating. (If you haven't done so, READ THE WARNINGS IN THOSE TAGS, PLEASE.) The first two chapters especially are pretty rough, and there's not much in the way of happy moments to offset the bad stuff. The second half (which is still a few chapters away) should be an improvement in that regard. It will definitely be following the plot of the CA:TWS, so fingers crossed Sam and Nat can make things a lot less bleak once they arrive. (SPOILER: There will still be angst. Seriously. Just look at these boys.)
> 
> Also concerning the first half of this fic: I really wish I wasn't posting another story that features sexual abuse in any capacity. I mean, if you find you frequently write stories with rape in them, that's fine, but for myself, after a while I kind of feel like the V.C. Andrews of fanfiction, but with rape instead of incest. However, I also based the first part of this story on reform schools, and I decided to go for historical accuracy wherever possible. As it turns out, historically reform schools have reputations similar to indigenous boarding schools, private orphanages, and many of the shadier boarding schools. That pretty much means that sexual abuse and rape was a part of life for a lot of these kids. I tried taking that aspect of the story out, but it felt like lying to not include it, and I didn't want to write off the experiences of real children. I will admit, I toned down a lot of the abuse considerably from the various accounts I found. (Yeah. I know.) So you're welcome. I guess. 
> 
> Another thing I found unexpectedly upsetting to write is the period-typical homophobia and racism. It's probably good to know heading into this story that even Steve and Bucky can get a little racist and homophobic at times. I tried to do justice to them but sometimes they literally did not have the proper language available to not be a little offensive. Bucky's perspective is quite problematic in the first few chapters, due to some detrimental coping mechanisms and survivor's guilt, so be aware of that. So far as the less-than-admirable characters are concerned: they are horrible, horrible people. I do not condone any of their words or actions. Feel free to imagine kicking them every time they make an appearance. I know I did.
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> (Many thank yous forever to everyone who has been encouraging me to keep writing this when I post panicked "WHY AM I DOING THIS TO THEM??" posts, and to my super-helpful beta [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness).)

 

 

 

_The darkness drops again but now I know_   
_That twenty centuries of stony sleep_   
_Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,_   
_And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,_   
_Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?_

-          “The Second Coming,” William Butler Yeats

 

***

 

James Buchanan Barnes meets his best friend one cold February morning in 1929. He is ten years old, and he is in trouble. Now that the shouting and the strap are over with, the easy part of the punishment has arrived, if you consider pushing an ancient, back-breakingly heavy mop around a mud room easy. James does not, but his backside still stings, and he really doesn’t want to get hit again, so he keeps his head down and throws all of his weight into pushing the mop, feeling equal parts triumphant and frustrated when it scoots across the floor a few inches.

 

He looks up for a moment when the door opens and a nun, of all things, walks in pulling off her coat and turning impatiently behind her, saying,

 

“Come on, come on. Don’t take all day.”

 

A very small boy trails in behind her, who looks like he’s about seven years old. His eyes are watery and his blond hair lies lank and flat against his head. There’s a flush of red on two high points in his cheeks and James can hear his chest rattle with every breath he takes. He’s scrawnier than anyone James has ever seen before, and he doesn’t look very happy. James would say he’s the saddest looking kid he’s ever seen, but he doesn’t see many happy ones to compare him to. No, this kid looks about on par with all the other boys at this school. No one is ever happy to be sent to the Barry School for Boys; as a rule, people aren’t happy to find out they’re a lost cause. It’s been a while since James has seen a nun bring a boy in though.

 

His curiosity is effectively quelled when he sees the mud they’ve left on his once clean floor, but it’s ignited again when Mr. Snyder, the principal, notices him half an hour later.

 

“Barnes,” He calls, interrupting James’s trek to the back stoop to empty the now dirty bucket of mop water. “In here, now.”

 

James is worried that he’s in trouble for something yet again, and he wasn’t even trying this time, but he squares his shoulders and marches into the office. He doesn’t ever let anyone see him scared. Besides, Mr. Snyder only ever pays attention to you if you act guilty. If you act like you’ve been behaving yourself, you’re probably going to be fine.

 

“ – ought to be a lovely child,” the nun is saying as he slips inside and closes the door behind him. “He’s so respectful and polite to the sisters. But the _fights_ he gets into.”

 

She’s gesturing emphatically with a hand full of paperwork at the little boy, who is staring hard at the floor, acting like he wishes it would open up and swallow him.

 

“He causes enough of a drain on our resources as it is, he’s such a sickly little thing. We can’t afford to be patching him up all the time, too.”

 

“Not to worry, Sister,” Mr. Snyder says confidently. “We’ll get the boy straightened out. We may make a model citizen out of him yet.”

 

He looks up and sees James.

 

“Barnes,” He says. “This is Steven Rogers, from the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage in Brownsville. He’s going to be going to school here, and he’s in your grade, so I want you to take him and show him around. Does that dorm room of yours still have the empty cot?”

 

“Yessir,” James says, dutifully, although he has no idea. Steven will be staying there if there’s room to spare or not, so it doesn’t really matter.

 

“Good,” says Mr. Snyder. “Get moving, then.”

 

James rushes back to the door, because the nun is making him a little nervous, like she’s hiding damnation under her habit or something. He glances over his shoulder, once, to make sure Steven is trudging obediently behind him, but he doesn’t say anything until they’re hauling Steven’s bag up the stairs.

 

“You don’t look like you’re ten,” is the first thing James says to him. “You have to be ten to come here.”

 

“I’m eleven,” comes the quiet answer.

 

“Are not,” James scoffs, and he backs up a little when Steven’s flushed and angry face whips up and is suddenly glaring at him full on.

 

“Am too,” he snaps. “Are you gonna make fun of me? Get on with it, then. I know I look like a baby.”

 

“No, not a baby,” James says, trying to sound at least a little soothing. “Just like a kid. But I guess it’s not your fault if you’re a shrimp.”

 

“You’re a jerk,” Steven mutters.

 

“I’m trying to be nice,” James protests. “It’s not my fault they stuck you in a reform school. You don’t have to take it out on me if the nuns didn’t want you.”

 

Steven is quiet for a long moment but finally he says, “Sorry,” in a really small voice and he’s looking at his feet again and his eyes are too bright, so James reaches out to pat him awkwardly on the arm. He’s not exactly what you could call a kind person. He never goes out of his way to make people like him, but something about Steven makes him want to help. When Steven looks sad, it makes James feel sad, and James has never been much for asking why, he’s just interested in doing what feels good. Right now, that means making _Steven_ feel good about being here.

 

“It’s not so bad, I promise,” James says, and he means it. “Mr. Snyder doesn’t really care much about what we do, so long as we don’t do anything bad enough to make the papers. No one here is really _that_ bad anyhow. We’re just a little different.”

 

“Really?” Steven asks, looking up at him with his swimming eyes, and now that James is holding his gaze, he can see the fear and hope there alongside the anger and hurt.

 

“Really,” he promises, conveniently forgetting the rumours about how Jack Preston was sent here for trying to kill his baby brother with a pillow. “Even the teachers aren’t that tough. I mean, they’ll lay into you with a ruler if you give them any lip, and they’ll give you extra chores if you get in a fight or break a rule, but that’s about it. Just stick with me. I’ll take care of you.”

 

***

 

Steven, James learns early, is _very_ hard to take care of.

 

***

 

“Steve, you gotta let people start standing up for themselves,” James chastises, as he delicately dabs at the cut on Steven’s face with a wet washcloth. “You can’t fight people’s battles for them.”

 

Steve squirms uncomfortably on the hard hamper lid, trying to land on a spot that isn’t stinging and sore. James understands and smiles sympathetically at him. Steven doesn’t notice.

 

“Arnie’s never gonna stand up for anything though,” he says, stubbornly. “He’s too worried that stupid board of trustees’ll keep him here forever if he steps out of line. _Someone’s_ gotta look after him.”

 

Steve has only been here for about six months, but already this has become a familiar argument. James never would have believed that someone as weak as Steve could be so scrappy, but he probably gets into more fights than any other kid there. It’s not because he’s a bully, or even that the other boys pick on him, it’s because Steve will fight on other people’s behalf at the drop of a hat, without anyone ever asking him to. He never gets into a fight on his own behalf, but the second anyone starts to make fun of someone for being different, the gloves come off. Jack Preston usually sees the worst of it, either because he just won’t learn, or because he thinks making Steve angry is hilarious.

 

To be honest, James can imagine that the first few times you get attacked by the tiny unrelenting ball of rage that is Steve Rogers, it _would_ be pretty hilarious. But Angry Steve can inflict an impressive amount of damage (even though he always gets the worst of it), and after getting caught by his right hook a few times, James thinks the joke would have to wear a little thin. Preston just doesn’t let up though, and even starts taunting Steve directly once he notices how much his haphazard bullying gets Steve worked up. The more James is left to patch him up afterwards the more he understands why the nuns all despaired of him.

 

“Someone’s gotta look after _you_ ,” James insists. Steve only grins at him.

 

“You look after me,” he says. “See? It all works out.”

 

James slumps over in dramatic defeat. Steve punches him good-naturedly on the shoulder.

 

“Buck up, Barnes,” he jokes. “No matter what Arnold thinks, we’re gonna be here for a long time. Can’t have you giving up on me already.”

 

“Buck up, huh?” James repeats, laughing. “You know my middle name’s Buchanan?”

 

Steve laughs, because they’ve just been memorizing the presidents in History, and threatens to start calling him Old Buck or Ten-Cent Jimmy. In the end though, the nickname that sticks is Bucky.

 

***

 

Mr. Snyder has a heart attack when Steve and Bucky are in the 7th grade. Mrs. Wagner, the nice secretary who acts like everyone’s mother and always give the boys hugs when she runs into them on her way into the school, finds him lying on the floor of his office. Bucky doesn’t really care much one way or the other. Mr. Snyder has never cared about Bucky, he knows, and in the end the man was just one more adult to lecture him about the dangerous path he was walking on, and to extoll the virtues of a “good life.” Bucky knows a line when he hears one, and in the end that’s all Mr. Snyder had to offer him: meaningless talk. But Steve seems pretty upset by the whole thing.

 

“He was only ever trying to help us,” he says. “Now he’s gone.”

 

“He was only ever trying to make a living,” Bucky corrects, quietly so none of the teachers will overhear him. “I promise you, that guy could barely remember our names. I’m not gonna miss him now that he’s gone.”

 

Steve gives him a pained look, like he always does when Bucky says something he disagrees with. Bucky just grins at him and reaches out to ruffle his hair, which causes Steve to begin frowning in earnest and slap Bucky away with both hands. When Mr. Stoller catches them they’re each given a week’s worth of KP duty and a hiding that makes Bucky’s rear end throb, for “roughhousing.” Bucky complains until Steve loses his patience and slaps him in the face with a dirty rag. When Mr. Stoller breaks them up a second time they end up with a month’s worth of KP and sitting through classes the next day is a new kind of agony, but Bucky can’t stop thinking about how loudly Steve was laughing, and privately thinks it was worth it.

 

***

 

Mr. Douglas seems a lot like Mr. Snyder when he first arrives. He doesn’t pay much attention to any of the boys, and only is really half-interested in disciplining them when they’re marched into his office. Steve doesn’t like him at all, and keeps saying he wishes Mr. Snyder was still there.

 

“They’re practically identical,” Bucky protests. “Mr. Douglas is thin and Mr. Snyder was fat but that’s the only way they’re different. I think you’re a little off in the head, Steve.”

 

Steve, however, is adamant.

 

“The teachers don’t like him,” he insists. “They don’t like him, and they don’t trust him. Watch how they stare at him sometimes. There’s something wrong.”

 

As much as Bucky would like to laugh off Steve’s paranoia, when he pays any sort of attention at all, he has to admit something’s strange.

 

It’s not that the other teachers ever say anything bad about Mr. Douglas. To his face they are the pictures of polite professionalism. But there’s something in the tense way Mr. Sullivan holds himself when the new principal is in the room, and in the way Mr. Bradley is forever frowning when Mr. Douglas interrupts classes to ask for a favour. It’s nothing Mr. Snyder wasn’t guilty of, but it’s almost as though the teachers know something about the new principal that the boys don’t.

 

It’s when Mr. Douglas hires a vice principal that the teachers finally start to disappear. Not in a creepy, Al Capone way, but leaving all the same. Bucky often wonders why Mr. Douglas hired Mr. Atherton, who is a lot like Jack Preston on a bad day. He seems to make a game out of targeting the weak students and hurting them; scaring the youngest boys until they cry, and whipping the older ones at the slightest provocation – sometimes when they haven’t even done anything at all. But what is irritating in someone your own age is downright intimidating in an adult who’s been given the authority to punish you. He throws the students and teachers both off-balance, but the teachers at least aren’t locked up in the building every night.

 

Mr. Bradley actually quits in the middle of a lesson, when Mr. Atherton interrupts, insisting that Alexander Kenny go to the principal’s office immediately, on Mr. Douglas’s orders. According to the boys in class, Mr. Bradley just handed Mr. Atherton a piece of paper, said goodbye to his class, and walked out the door. Steve tells Bucky later that he caught a glimpse of the paper and that it was a resignation letter. Mr. Sullivan is actually fired, but no one knows why.

 

It’s a little frightening, because jobs aren’t easy to find right now, and even Bucky had liked Mr. Sullivan, who hardly ever whipped students at all, even when they deserved it. He wonders what all his old teachers will do now that they’re out of work. Meanwhile the retreating teachers are replaced with men who are just as hard and unforgiving as Mr. Atherton. Before long, grumpy, fussy Mr. Stoller is the only member of the old faculty left.

 

***

 

Some days Steve is too sick to go outside for the scheduled yard work and chores, so Mrs. Wagner arranges for him to come inside and help her with the filing and paperwork. Since Steve is such a smart kid, he takes to it like a duck to water and before too long, Mrs. Wagner is arranging for him to do office work more than he does regular chores. At first the other boys grumble about it, and Bucky is worried that they’ll get Steve into trouble. It wouldn’t be Steve’s fault, but the new teachers almost seem like they look for reasons to punish people. Whippings happen a lot more now, and for a lot of new reasons. Steve insists some of the teachers make the rules up as they go.

 

Ultimately it’s Steve’s quiet complaints about the new teachers that get the other boys to stop fussing about his new job, because the longer Steve stays in the office the more convincing his accusations get. Apparently, Steve’s new responsibilities come with healthy doses of _information_ , and Steve is not the kind of kid to withhold information to gain the upper hand. The closest he ever gets to holding what he knows over someone’s head is when he sees someone (Preston) being a bully and point blank refuses to keep talking until that person (Preston) knocks it off. 

 

It doesn’t take long for Steve to sort out that all of the new teachers have been hand-picked by Mr. Douglas, and that their paperwork shows they’ve all worked at the same places as Mr. Douglas in the past, like they follow him from place to place. They also show that most of the new teachers have been fired more than a few times for inappropriate behavior.

 

“He’s just hiring all of his friends!” Steve hisses to a small group. “And none of them can get work anywhere else because they’re too mean to keep jobs where they get to be in charge of normal kids.”

 

Steve’s vocal and insistent hatred of the new faculty is worrying to Bucky, who has enough trouble keeping the damned kid in line and out of trouble on a good day. Still, he doesn’t really see the writing on the wall until the day Mr. Eckert actually hauls Peter Carlson out to the shed behind the school in the middle of class and whips him until he _bleeds._ The other boys gather at the window and watch with horrified expressions as Mr. Stoller tentatively approaches the shed at the commotion and calls out to Mr. Eckert uncertainly. As soon as Mr. Eckert has stormed out and starts to head back to the main building, shouting incoherently over his shoulder about cotton and “stupid little jigaboos who don’t know their place” the boys scramble back into their seats so they won’t be caught staring. Steve stays at the window the longest, something dark and angry raging behind his eyes, watching Mr. Stoller reluctantly help a crying Peter hobble towards the dorms. Mr. Atherton gets mad at Mr. Eckert and tells him off in the hallway, but not for hurting Peter.

 

“We’re inner city here, Martin, and the fence only keeps the _kids_ on the inside, not the noises they make. You don’t go airing the dirty laundry out where anyone can overhear you, you understand? There’s a perfectly good basement in this building, use that.”

 

“They’re all just a bunch of bullies,” Bucky hears Steve mutter as they watch Mr. Atherton walk away, and his stomach drops down into his boots, because he _knows_ how Steve deals with bullies, and now he also knows how this school will be dealing with difficult students. Somehow Bucky doesn’t think considerations will be made for Steve’s fragile health. It’s not the first time Bucky’s been afraid that Steve will die and leave him before they’ve had a chance to grow up together, but it’s the first time he’s realized that it might be something other than sickness that makes it happen.

 

***

 

One morning, a few months after Mr. Douglas arrives, Bucky can’t get the normally punctual Steve out of bed with the wake-up call. Steve has been getting sicker and sicker with the latest bout of illness going through the school, so Bucky has a second of heart stopping terror before he reassures himself that Steve is still breathing, wheezing painfully like he can’t get enough air.

 

“You okay, Steve?” He asks gently, shaking Steve’s shoulder. “Do you need help getting to breakfast?”

 

Steve only moans pitifully in his sleep. His face is flushed bright red, and there’s a grimace on his face as though the threadbare sheet covering him is somehow causing him pain. Bucky makes a face of resignation and carefully slips his arm around Steve’s shoulders as he tries to haul his friend up into a sitting position. The old faculty might have put up with Steve being too sick to move, but ever since Mr. Atherton told Steve he could breathe if he really wanted to and tried to beat Steve out of an asthma attack, Bucky tries not to risk drawing any undue attention towards them. And now there’s the added problem of the boiler room, where more and more kids have been getting dragged to since the incident with Peter Carlson, instead of getting their backsides tanned in front of the class.

 

At one time, Bucky may have thought it was better to face punishment in private than be humiliated in front of an entire room full of his classmates, but that was before he got sent to the boiler room himself, for finishing a fight that Steve started. Rulers don’t just whip the backs of your thighs down there but land up and down your whole body, front and back; hands close into fists on more than one occasion. When you’re really bad, they unscrew the lone light bulb in the room and take it with them before sending for Mr. Hodgson, the only person besides Mr. Douglas and Mr. Atherton to carry his own complete set of keys. After you’ve been locked in alone and in the dark, to “think about what you’ve done,” the rats start to come out of the corners and there’s nothing you can do to get away until the door opens again. Bucky works very hard to keep both himself and Steve as far away from the basement as possible.

 

This morning, though, as soon as Steve is in a sitting position, his eyes fly open and he lets out a wail of distress, arms jerkily going to wrap around his stomach as he hunches over. He’s very, very hot, and Bucky notices a strange rash just starting on his arms. Steve sits there shuddering for a moment before Bucky reluctantly lowers him back to the bed. He sits next to him quietly, knowing he’ll be punished, but unwilling to let them hurt Steve without trying to stop it, either.

 

***

 

They do admit that Steve is sick in the end, but only after they’ve given Bucky a black eye and shoved him across the room to yank the sheets off of Steve and force him to stand. Steve yelps loudly and falls over in a heap, looking like he’s trying hard not to cry.

 

“Now what the hell do you think he’s gotten into to cause _that_?” Mr. Hodgson wonders aloud as he stares at Steve’s abnormally oversized and deformed ankles.

 

“It’s just a cold,” Mr. Douglas says, dismissively. “Let him sleep through the worst of it. It won’t kill him to miss a few meals.”

 

***

 

Steve doesn’t get any better. Bucky tries to sneak food up to him and sit with him whenever he can, but nothing much changes, and the fever and rash both keep getting worse. On the second day, Steve won’t respond to any prodding at all and Bucky is so, so scared that he’ll die, but that’s about when Mrs. Wagner walks into the dorm with a determined step and false cheerfulness in her voice.

 

“They just told me Steven won’t be helping me for a second day in a row. It’s not like him to be truant, so I wanted to make sure he was alright.”

 

“I’m taking care of him,” Bucky says, stubbornly. Mrs. Wagner smiles absently at him, but the usually indulgent expression is stretched thin as she gingerly picks up Steve’s arm and examines it. The rash has gotten worse by now, and the swelling in his joints seems to be spreading to his elbows and wrists.

 

Mrs. Wagner disappears into Mr. Douglas’s office and from what Bucky can tell, she doesn’t leave all morning. Once Bucky walks past and hears her say something about “rheumatic fever” and “aspirin” in a loud voice, but she doesn’t seem to be able to get through to the principal, because right about when the bell rings, Bucky sees her storm out and grab her coat and hat. She calls out over her shoulder that she’s taking a long lunch when she goes, and comes back a little over an hour and a half later with a doctor in tow. Mr. Douglas is almost purple with rage, but he doesn’t stop the doctor from looking over Steve. Bucky hears him mutter something about roughhousing when the doctor asks about some of Steve’s bruises. When the doctor looks uncertain, Mr. Douglas sighs slightly and says,

 

“These aren’t normal boys, Doctor. They live hard; injuries are hardly uncommon.”

 

“If you ever need me to come in and look after any of those injuries, I would be happy to offer my services,” The doctor says. “In the meantime, I’m going to leave you with some aspirin, and some instructions on how to keep him hydrated. It’s good that you sent Mrs. Wagner for me. Rheumatic fever can have deadly consequences if it’s not properly monitored.”

 

Mr. Douglas thanks the Doctor politely for his time and carefully listens to the rules that are laid out. Bucky listens too, from the doorway, because he knows that no one here has any intention of helping Steve except for him and Mrs. Wagner, and anyhow, Steve is _his_ responsibility. If he can’t charm the cooks into making up a little broth for Steve at meal time, he doesn’t deserve the title of best friend.

 

Mrs. Wagner brushes the hair out of Steve’s face fondly before she leaves the room, after the doctor and Mr. Douglas have gone. She spots Bucky skulking as she walks past, too, and stops to give him an unexpected but warm hug.

 

“You keep looking after him,” she whispers.

 

Bucky nods solemnly, and Mrs. Wagner calmly walks back the front office and her desk. Later Elmer Schulz will swear that he saw her start packing her things the second she walked in, and that Mr. Douglas barely got a chance to properly fire her for insubordination before she’s walking out the front door.

 

***

 

Mr. Douglas calls Bucky into his office one day in the summer while the other boys are out doing chores. All of the good teachers are gone by now, and even most of the ‘just okay’ ones. Mrs. Wagner has been gone for months, and when Preston unsuccessfully made a run for it a few weeks ago, he was whipped so hard he couldn’t get out of bed for a week and a half. Things seem about as bad as they can possibly get, but Bucky knows deep down that they can always get worse.

 

Mr. Douglas still doesn’t pay much attention to the students, isn’t interested in hitting them or shoving them around like most of the other teachers are, but that doesn’t mean Bucky trusts him. Mr. Douglas likes people based on what they can do for him, which is why he doesn’t have much use for a bunch of delinquent boys, and why he prefers to let the school run itself. Bucky has no idea what he’s doing in the man’s office.

 

When Mr. Douglas raises an arm and gestures for him to come around to his side of the desk with a carefully manufactured smile, Bucky starts to get the picture. He feels like he’s walking into a tiger cage at the zoo, but he does as he’s told anyhow. Steve is just on the other side of the door, diligently filing like he always does, helping the school justify not hiring a full-time replacement secretary. Bucky wants to walk the other direction, back to where he knows he’s safe, just in case, but Bucky isn’t brave like Steve is. Bucky’s never been good dealing with rights and wrongs, because he gets scared, and then noble ideas like justice get clouded over with the need to survive and get by. Sometimes it’s so much safer to do what you’re told and play the game, even when the game isn’t safe either.

 

“Good boy,” Mr. Douglas says, when Bucky slowly comes to a halt next to his chair.  He slides back a little and turns so he’s facing Bucky, his hand reaching out and patting Bucky amicably just above his hip bone. “Tell me James, how long have you been at this school now?”

 

“Long time,” Bucky mutters, then adds “A few years” when Mr. Douglas raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the first answer.

 

“Would you like to leave one day?” Mr. Douglas asks, seriously.

 

Bucky nods.

 

“That’s a good answer,” says Mr. Douglas, taking hold of the top of Bucky’s pants like they’re a harness and guiding him closer to him. He lets the hand slide round to the back of Bucky’s waist as he indicates to Bucky’s file sitting on top of the desk. “But I’m a little worried that you don’t mean it. You get into a lot of fights, James.”

 

“I _finish_ a lot of fights,” Bucky corrects, automatically. He can feel Mr. Douglas’s hand still resting on the top of his pants. “I don’t start them.”

 

“You spend your time fraternizing with students who are known to be excessively violent and a danger to others,” Mr. Douglas says as Bucky forces down a hysterical laugh, like _Steve_ could ever be considered dangerous. “I want to see you succeed in life, James. I really do want to see you get out of this place and maybe see you make your own way in the world. But how can I give the board of trustees the go-ahead to let you back out into society when you aren’t taking your future seriously?”

 

The hand is starting to dip down into the back of his pants now. Bucky has to lock his knees to keep from squirming away.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, saying the first thing that comes to mind in an attempt to distract himself from what Mr. Douglas is pretending isn’t happening. “I’ll try harder. I’ll be better.”

 

“Good boy,” Mr. Douglas repeats, softly. “If you’re serious, this is a very big step for you. This school only has your best interests at heart.”

 

Mr. Douglas’s free hand reaches forward to undo the front of Bucky’s trousers while the second hand works itself into the back of Bucky’s pants entirely, even past his underwear. Bucky can’t stop himself from trying to pull away this time, but there’s nowhere he can move that won’t push himself further into Mr. Douglas’s hands and no one else has ever, ever touched him in these places and he’s so uncomfortable and suddenly it feels like he’s having trouble breathing.

 

“Please stop,” he whispers, and just saying those words is so hard that his eyes are brimming over with tears. Mr. Douglas shushes him, but he doesn’t stop touching and this is it, Bucky realizes. This is really going to happen.

 

Which is about when the door to the office swings open wide. Mr. Douglas snatches his hands back, nowhere near quickly enough, and Bucky suddenly wants to start crying for real, because Steve is standing on the other side of the door with a stony expression on his face.

 

“What’s going on?” He asks, quietly.

 

“Nothing that concerns you,” Mr. Douglas says calmly, hands folded on the desk like they just weren’t caught all over Bucky. Like Steve can’t see Bucky’s pants hanging open and barely seated on his hips.

 

Steve crosses his arms, and Bucky has no idea how a kid that tiny can look so menacing.

 

“I feel a little concerned,” he says.

 

“Rogers,” Mr. Douglas says, using his Teacher Voice. “Out. Now.”

 

“I’ll leave when Bucky leaves with me,” Steve says, not wavering for a second. “Elmer Schulz somehow broke his hand yesterday afternoon, so I told Miss Matson we’d help take over his KP duty today.”

 

When no one moves or speaks for a few moments, Steve walks behind the desk and over to Bucky like it’s nothing. He goes to take Bucky’s hand, but since they’re both still clenching the desk so tightly his fingers feel like they’re about to break, Steve settles on grabbing a wrist and tugging on it gently but firmly until Bucky releases his hold.

 

“Miss Matson is our favourite cook,” he explains to Mr. Douglas, like he’s talking to a friend about the damn weather. “She’s always friendly, and she loves to tell stories about how her wedding planning is going when we ask her. You knew she was getting married, didn’t you? You should ask her about how she met her fiancé sometime. It’s a great story. Someone stole her father’s watch from her boarding house and he was the officer who came to take her statement. He worked all this extra time to find the watch and then asked for permission to call on her after he got it back. He’s very dedicated to his job, she says.”

 

At some point Steve has managed to herd Bucky away from the desk and to the office door. Now that he has some breathing space Bucky shakily remembers his pants and clumsily moves to straighten them out. Steve is levelling the coldest glare he’s ever seen given to anyone at Mr. Douglas.

 

“If you touch him again, I’ll find out. If you get rid of Miss Matson and her policeman fiancé, I’ll find someone else to tell. You _don’t_ touch James. You don’t touch _anyone_. You’ll regret it if you do. Just – just don’t – “

 

Steve breaks off, and shakes his finger vaguely in Mr. Douglas’s direction. Bucky can see a tremor run through it just a little before Steve grits out,

 

“Don’t. Touch. Bucky.”

 

He shoves Bucky out the door and pushes him blindly towards the kitchen.

 

“It’ll be okay,” he mutters. “It’ll be fine now.”

 

“You’re not gonna tell anyone, are you?” Bucky asks, feeling queasy. He doesn’t want to try to imagine how someone like Miss Matson would look at him if she knew.

 

“Miss Matson probably wouldn’t say anything to anyone even if we did tell her,” Steve admits. “She blushes when she says the word ‘marriage.’ But Mr. Douglas doesn’t know anything about her. I bet he hasn’t said two words to her. And besides, she’s going to give notice in a couple weeks anyhow, because her new husband doesn’t want her working while she keeps house. She seemed like the safest option all-around.”

 

“Steve…” Bucky tries, before trailing off because what can he possibly say about any of this? He feels shaky and exhausted and sick and he always knew he hated this place, hated it even more since Douglas took over, but now he feels a whole new level of powerlessness that he hadn’t been prepared for.

 

Steve looks at him sympathetically, but then they reach the kitchens and there isn’t time to say anything else.

 

***

 

That night Bucky is scared to close his eyes for more than a second, even though he knows Mr. Douglas goes home to his fancy house in his clean safe neighbourhood every night, and wouldn’t stoop to setting foot in the overcrowded dorms, even if he didn’t. The only problem is that suddenly Mr. Douglas isn’t the only threat. Suddenly he notices that a lot of the kids are told to stay behind after class, alone with one of the teachers. Everything has started to look suspicious and alarming.

 

Still, despite his jittery nerves, when he feels the cot dip down next to him, he only sighs in relief and feels his body start to relax for the first time in hours.

 

“I could hear your heart racing from all the way in my bed,” Steve whispers, raising himself up on one elbow to look into Bucky’s eyes. “You okay?”

 

Bucky shrugs noncommittally and says,

 

“I’ll be fine. I’m not a baby.”

 

“No,” Steve says, chuckling a little. “You’re a kid.”

 

Bucky smiles a little, too. He flinches the next second, and the room lurches slightly when he feels Steve’s hand cautiously slide under his shirt and start slowly rubbing his chest. The unsteady feeling fades almost instantly when he recognizes the familiar motion, one that usually comes from his own hands, when he’s trying to help Steve breathe through a bad asthma attack.

 

“That feels good,” Bucky manages after a minute, because it does. He can almost feel his eyes starting to drift shut despite himself.

 

“I know it does,” Steve says, the smile still evident in his voice. “I know this isn’t quite the same as your lungs jumping around inside your chest, but I thought it might help for shaking, too.”

 

“I’m such an idiot,” Bucky whispers, feeling his cheeks get wet before he can stop himself. “I don’t know why I just stood there.”

 

“Because you knew I was right outside,” Steve says, gently. “And you knew that this is exactly the kind of fight that _I’m_ good at finishing. You can’t start punching teachers now, can you?”

 

“You looked like you were going to start when you opened that door,” Bucky admits, trying to sound jovial, but pretty sure he’s failing. He always just stands by and lets the bad things happen. He doesn’t know what Steve sees in him at all.

 

Steve scoots a little closer, still rubbing the same soothing patterns. It makes Bucky think vaguely about his mom, before things got really bad and he started getting in trouble with the police for stealing.

 

“You tell me if anyone tries anything again, okay?” Steve says, even quieter than before. “Ever since Mrs. Wagner left I’ve been paying more attention to the kinds of records they keep in this place. I haven’t found everything I need yet, but I’m sure there are secrets about the people in charge here that can get them into a lot of trouble.”

 

“Oh yeah?” says Bucky. “What terrible things have you found so far?”

 

“Mr. Stoller’s first name is _Burgess_ , for a start, so his parents didn’t like him, either,” Steve says, with such derision in his voice that Bucky lets out a snort of laughter that forces a few more tears down his face before he covers his mouth with his hand.

 

“You’re right,” he chokes out. “You keep digging up stuff like that, you’ll have Dodge cleaned up before the week’s out, Wyatt.”

 

Steve looks at him in delight for a few seconds before he sobers a little and reaches out to wipe some of the tears off Bucky’s face.

 

“I’m looking for secrets that won’t hinge on police taking the word of a couple of punk kids,” he says. “And when I find them, I’ll use them to get us out of here and bring the whole school down around their ears.”

 

Something inside of Bucky’s heart unclenches and even though he doesn’t think anything will be as straightforward as Steve makes it sound, he laughs again, and there’s more control in it this time.

 

“No wonder he’s never called you into that office,” he says.

 

“Why?” Steve asks, and Bucky looks up to see him smirking slightly. “Because I’m an ugly, loudmouthed, scrawny little titch of a guy? I wouldn’t want to call me into that office, either.”

 

“No,” Bucky says, impulsively pulling Steve into a hug, trapping Steve’s hand between them. “Because you’re the scariest student in the entire school.”


	2. Century of Sleep, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frick. I am very, very sorry, everyone. This chapter is brutal. Remember what I said last time about how I was toning down the abuse from the various sources I found researching this? That still stands. I suppose it goes with out saying that even at reform schools with documented abuse, not all of it was _quite_ this bad. I'd probably place it at the extreme upper end of the middle of the scale. Like, just dancing over the line into straight up awful.
> 
> In case you weren't already getting the impression, I wanted to put another warning here about the racism, homophobia, and abuse specifically in this chapter, since this is about as bad as it gets. To the extent that I wonder if maybe it should be classified as torture? At any rate, it is extremely abusive. Oh, and Bucky's PoV has a lot of victim blaming in it, so please be aware. 
> 
> I also feel pretty bad about the fact that any resolution dealing with this part of the story is still a long way off. I promise, it will be coming, but yeah - it's still a ways away. Fuck, folks. I hate this chapter, I hate it so much, so I'm just going to post it and then try to never think about it again. Yep.
> 
> Finally, there is a Native American character in this chapter, but since I don't live on the right side of North America, I don't know a whole lot about the tribes (and especially what they were like in the 1930s). I tried, I really did, but there's a good chance I'm relaying the few facts I included inaccurately. 
> 
> Thanks again to my beta [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness), who is wonderful and perfect and reigns me in when I go off on tangents.

 

 

 

Steve and Bucky are 14 and 13, respectively, when an Indian boarding school in Maine gradually begins to phase out its younger grades. Normally that wouldn’t matter a bit to anyone at Barry’s, but a few of the Indian boys are considered good-for-nothings, or their parents are good-for-nothings, and suddenly there’s an influx of displaced Indian kids being fed into the reform school system. Only one is unfortunate enough to get thrown into Barry’s, though: a ten-year-old kid named Lloyd who gets a reputation right away for being a little off.

 

Even at that, Lloyd’s appearance shouldn’t make much of an impression on Steve or Bucky, because the coloured kids and the white kids at Barry’s School for Boys get into trouble if they spend too much time talking together. Bucky can see Steve get riled up every time the unwritten rule gets enforced, but he’s almost always able to distract Steve with some other shiny, decidedly less dangerous injustice to rail against. Steve certainly doesn’t make it easy, but Bucky is more convinced than ever that his purpose in life is to keep Steve alive. He absolutely believes one day Steve is going to be Important. He doesn’t know how exactly, but he knows that if he can save Steve Rogers from Steve Rogers, one day the world is gonna thank him for it.

 

Not that Bucky is in it for the glory, or respect. Frankly if he cared about those things he wouldn’t spend so much time defending Steve, because the older they get, the stranger people get about their friendship. Preston has taken to calling them “the two queers” and instead of punishing him for it, most of the teachers laugh before telling Steve and Bucky not to sit next to each other in class. The trips to the boiler room are increasing in frequency, even when all they are doing is talking to each other. Mr. Rice calls Bucky a nance when he punishes him, and Steve hears even worse, Bucky’s certain. All things told, it would be much easier to stop letting them see how much he cares about Steve, but Bucky could no easier do than he could stop breathing. Sometimes it scares him, how much he needs Steve.

 

For now though, until the world realizes they need Steve as badly as he does, Bucky has his work cut out for him. He tries to keep Steve from standing up to the big kids, unless standing up to a big kid will keep him from standing up to a teacher. He almost never lets Steve talk back to the teachers, although sometimes there’s literally no stopping him. Each time he sees them drag Steve off to that awful basement, Bucky feels his chest go tight, he’s so certain it’s going to be the end. He lives in terror that one day Steve will be too weak to make it back out, even with that useless Stoller – too cowardly to decide if he’s going to help other teachers or stop them – helping him stagger out after the dirty work is done.

 

So Bucky does whatever it takes. He takes the blame when Steve starts something; he diverts attention to another boy’s worse behaviour when Steve gets a chip on his shoulder; once or twice he physically pins Steve to the floor when the kid gets it in his head to go give someone a piece of his mind. It’s exhausting work, but it _does_ work. Until Lloyd.

 

The problem with Lloyd is that he’s an outcast. No one really likes him, because even though he’s only ten, he’s obviously trouble. Right off the bat he refuses to answer to his last name, keeps insisting that it’s wrong. That someone just chose Smith off a random list and told him that was his name, but Lloyd doesn’t think you can rename a person anything without their permission. He gets thrashed by the teachers almost every day, but he never backs down. Steve says something about assimilation, but Steve is the only one at school who ever reads the boring old books and magazines that occasionally are donated, so no one really knows what either boy is talking about.

 

Right away that standoff between Lloyd and the teachers puts the coloured kids on edge, because no one wants to draw focus from an adult if they can help it, so Lloyd spends most of his time alone. Which is a problem for Lloyd, because even when the people picking on you are grownups, there’s still something to be said for safety in numbers. It’s harder for a bully to pick you out in the middle of a crowd, after all. Aside from the unavoidable in-fighting, the white kids tend to stick together. Similarly, the black kids stay with the black kids, and the Puerto Ricans stay with the Puerto Ricans. But Lloyd has no one.

 

The teachers hone in on that isolation right away, can tell that he has nowhere to hide, and start taking advantage of it. Mr. Hodgson gets them started by calling Lloyd a red skin, and talking to him in gibberish, pretending to speak his language. After that it doesn’t take long for things to start getting vicious. Bucky learns that in the lower-level class, Mr. Curtis forces Lloyd to stand at the front of the room as he repeatedly knocks him to the ground, saying he’s re-enacting the Battle at Wounded Knee.

 

Steve gets angrier and angrier the longer it happens, not that Bucky can blame him. It makes everyone uncomfortable, even the kids who like how the faculty won’t let the coloured kids have much to do with the white ones. But the problem is that the only person who can make things easier on Lloyd is _Lloyd_. Lloyd needs to start acting less proud of the Indian stuff and more ashamed of it, or else he’s just not gonna make it. Bucky doesn’t like it either, but one thing Bucky knows is survival, and that’s the way it has to be. And Lloyd is the kind of person who will take a stand whether he can come out on top or not, because it’s the right thing to do. Bucky can recognize that determined look on his face easy enough; he’s grown up watching it on Steve’s.

 

Most of Bucky’s time now is spent trying to keep Steve as far away from Lloyd as possible, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before Steve shakes him off and gets it into his head to befriend the sad, picked on kid that no one ever talks to. Sure enough, one afternoon he comes in to wash up for dinner and tries not to slump in defeat when he sees Steve talking animatedly to Lloyd, who looks happier than Bucky has ever seen him.

 

“Buck!” Steve says when he notices him, waving him over. Bucky reluctantly joins them, a weak and unconvincing smile on his face.

 

“Lloyd was telling me about his family and the tribe he came from. They’re called the Penobscot and his parents taught him to speak a whole different language before he was sent to school. Isn’t that neat? What’s it called again, Lloyd?”

 

Steve is so genuinely interested and excited, and Lloyd looks so pleased when he cautiously tells him “Abnaki,” that Bucky feels like a heel when he says,

 

“That’s swell, but don’t talk about it too loud. You never know who might hear.”

 

The tiny glimmer of happiness in Lloyd’s eyes goes out almost immediately and Bucky winces.

 

“Sorry,” he mutters, because he _is_ sorry. Lloyd shrugs like he understands, and Steve just stands there silently, fuming.

 

“It’s not right,” he grits out to Bucky later. Bucky doesn’t need to ask for clarification.

 

“I know,” he says. “But it’s how it is.”

 

Steve sneers.

 

“‘It’s how it is,’’ he mimics. “Famous words that changed the course of history.”

 

Bucky shoves Steve against the nearest wall and sticks his finger in his face.

 

“ _No_ ,” he says. “Steve, _no_. You’re a _kid_ , Steve. One that can’t even throw a punch without getting winded. You can’t change anything, not right now, okay? Things have been so good lately. Please don’t try. Just try not to get hurt and try not to get sick and then when you’re grown up and smart and important, _then_ you come back here and change history.”

 

“That doesn’t help anyone now,” Steve says, calmly like he’s being reasonable and logical. He absolutely thinks he is, too. Bucky’s had this conversation with him enough times to know.

 

“You know what else won’t help anything right now?” Bucky says. “A little runt of a kid taking a stand and trying to change the way things are when no one thinks he’s worth listening to.”

 

“If I’m so insignificant, who cares if I get hurt?” Steve asks, lightly, even though his smile is a little sad.

 

“ _I_ do,” Bucky says, not quite keeping his voice from cracking on the words. “ _I_ care. I can’t let you get hurt, buddy. I can’t make it without you. Please promise me you won’t let yourself get hurt?”

 

Steve reaches up and pats Bucky’s face fondly.

 

“Okay,” he says, softly. “It’s okay. I’ll look after you.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky agrees. “End of the line, right?”

 

“End of the line,” Steve echoes. “Promise.”

 

***

 

Steve keeps his promise for another few months before things go pear-shaped, just in time for spring. He still talks to Lloyd when no one is looking, and sometimes Bucky does, too, because he really _is_ a nice little kid. He’s almost too nice to even be friends with Steve, and he’s definitely too nice to be in a reform school, even a reform school like theirs, which boasts just as many “Children’s Bureau can’t be bothered” cases (Steve) as it does “future felons of America” cases (Preston). Lloyd’s not even at the school due to his own actions, for pity’s sake. Bucky’s heard Mr. Douglas say as much.

 

“My parents talk a lot,” Lloyd tries to explain at one point. “About how white people shouldn’t be involved in tribe business. I haven’t seen them for a long time, so I don’t really remember what they said, but it seemed to make a lot of people mad. I guess they’re dangerous.”

 

Whatever it was Lloyd’s parents said, Bucky sincerely hopes it was worth it. Even if Lloyd had ended up getting sent back to the boarding school once he was old enough (and Steve says he probably would have), he is floundering right now without them. Bucky and Steve do all that they can without making it too obvious, but there’s only so much help they can give without a teacher coming along to put a stop to it.

 

Still, it manages to be enough to keep Lloyd functioning until someone from the Dairy Farmers Union decides that the disenfranchised youths of Brooklyn are not getting enough milk in their diets. Bucky has never felt that his life is particularly lacking because he doesn’t get a fresh glass of milk to go alongside his disgusting watered-down porridge every morning. Frankly, he would rather have better porridge, or maybe a bigger bowl of the awful stuff, so his stomach isn’t cramping by mid-morning, but Bucky is not the one in charge of the Union’s goodwill gestures.

 

At any rate, for the last week and a half, the students at Barry’s School for Boys have been treated to a tall, cold glass of milk every morning alongside what Steve has taken to calling their “gruel.” It’s a mixed blessing, to say the least, because it seems that a lot of the kids who aren’t lily white have trouble drinking large amounts of milk. Where once students may have gotten hungry waiting for lunch time, now they are often feeling too miserable to eat it at all. No one, however, has it as bad as poor Lloyd, whose stomach rebels spectacularly to even the smallest amount of milk. Bucky has seen the kid projectile vomit after Mr. Curtis loses his patience and forces him to drink an entire glass in one go. Mr. Curtis is convinced Lloyd somehow threw up on purpose to be “contrary” and sends him down to the basement. When the scene replays itself the next morning Lloyd is punished again, and the morning after that when he refuses to drink the milk at all he’s hit so hard it knocks a tooth loose. From that point on, Lloyd is trapped in a constant cycle where he’s punished for his behaviour no matter what he does while the rest of the boys look awkwardly on and try to hide their own unsettled stomachs.

 

It all comes to a head when the president of the Union comes to Barry’s School with a representative from the Children’s Bureau in the final days of this very public act of kindness, just after breakfast has been served in the massive cafeteria. Today of all days Bucky and Steve aren’t going to be able to sit anywhere near Lloyd, but Steve tries to get as close as possible, determined to keep an eye on him as always. Mr. Hodgson is leaning over Lloyd menacingly as they sit, and they watch him whisper something quietly in Lloyd’s ear as Lloyd looks despondently at the healthy-sized glass of milk set in front of him.

 

Everyone is on their best behaviour as the visitors wander up and down between the tables, slowly so the photographer can keep up. Occasionally they lean down to shake a boy’s hand as the boy politely and robotically express his thanks, just like he’s been coached. They’re taking their time, chatting amicably with Mr. Douglas and it takes almost twenty minutes for them to get from one side of the room to the other.

 

The boys are mostly waiting to be dismissed, their very limited capacity to behave like well-mannered children almost spent, when the president leans down to ask a boy sitting in the aisle across from Lloyd,

 

“Well now! Wasn’t this a nice treat?”

 

Which is right about when Lloyd, who has been getting progressively paler, spins around in his seat with wide eyes casting about desperately for an exit before throwing up all over the president’s shoes. For a moment, everything is deadly silent, then, a tittering noise starts up from the far corner of the room and before long, all the kids are laughing uproariously, confident that they can’t _all_ be punished for disrespecting their guest, currently gaping at his shoes like a baffled trout. Lloyd tries to mutter out an apology but only succeeds in throwing up again before Mr. Stoller arrives on the scene and roughly hauls him out of the room by the arm, looking grim. Mr. Atherton is watching from the doorway, looking positively murderous.

 

 “Well what did they expect would happen?” Steve demands, not bothering to hide his contempt as he stares at the adults stumbling over themselves to help save the president’s shoes. “I bet there are 20 other kids in here who are this close to joining him. It’s not their fault.”

 

“I don’t think that’s going to matter,” says Bucky.

 

***

 

They slip away from the cafeteria as soon as they can and try to find out where Lloyd has been taken. While their visitors don’t seem overly upset by what happened, they’re still understandably making a speedy exit, maybe before any of the other kids with milk allergies can follow Lloyd’s lead.  The only trouble with that is, Lloyd is only really safe from retribution while there are strangers in the building. Without anyone to keep up an act around, things are going to get ugly, and quickly.

 

They find him being held up by his hair by Mr. Stoller, for once getting hands on in his frustration.

 

“Stop squirming, you little shit. This is your own fault, you know that.”

 

“I didn’t mean to,” Lloyd is begging. He sounds frantic and given his current state he has every right to be. Already he has a swollen lip, blood dribbling out the side of his mouth. Far more alarming is the fact that Mr. Atherton is in the middle of ripping off Lloyd’s underpants. He tosses it with the rest of Lloyd’s soiled clothes, which smell faintly of sour milk even from across the room.

 

“I know you didn’t,” Mr. Atherton says, in deceptively soothing tones. “I really do understand, Smith. You can’t help yourself, right? All you coloured kids – you’re just slaves to your baser instincts. The little red ones are especially savage, too. At least the other kids are a couple generations removed from Africa, but your folks probably still scalp white people to wear their skins in the winter. Luckily for you, all we want to do is help you.” 

 

Mr. Atherton kicks out suddenly and his boot makes contact with Lloyd’s torso, who loses a handful of hair as he’s ripped from Mr. Stoller’s grip and lands hard on the ground.

 

“Speaking of scalping,” Mr. Atherton chuckles.

 

Steve is charging towards them in an instant, shouting,

 

“Hey, leave him alone!”

 

Bucky stays rooted where he is in the entryway, watching like he always does. His mind is desperately trying to land on a solution that will help Lloyd and keep Steve from getting hurt himself, but there’s nothing. It’s like watching a car wreck happening in slow motion. There’s nothing he can _do_.

 

“Go away, Rogers,” Mr. Stoller says, barely glancing at him. “This is not your business.”

 

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Steve insists, crouching to go help Lloyd stand up.

 

“Mr. Stoller just said that Smith’s business isn’t yours, Rogers,” Mr. Atherton says, his voice still carrying that deceptive calm quality that always promises violence.

 

Sure enough, his next words (“Maybe you should spend more time worrying about the consequences of your own actions instead of meddling in other people’s affairs.”) are followed up by a vicious swat to the side that slams Steve’s head right into the wall. Steve goes down like a ton of bricks.

 

“I thought you didn’t like picking off the weak ones,” Mr. Stoller remarks, still not looking terribly uncomfortable (he’s never really liked Steve). “Something about having to stop too soon.”

 

Mr. Atherton snaps out something no teacher should ever be heard saying, and Mr. Stoller rolls his eyes before looking at Bucky, who has been trying to edge closer to Steve without anyone noticing.

 

“Get your friend out of here, Barnes,” he says.

 

“Yes sir,” Bucky says, making sure he doesn’t maintain any kind of eye contact. “And Lloyd?”

 

“Don’t worry about him,” Mr. Atherton says. “We’ll teach him some proper manners, make sure he never forgets his place again, and that’ll be the end of it. You know how this works.”

 

Bucky absolutely knows, which is why he gets close enough to murmur to the still-on-the-ground Lloyd as he goes to shake Steve back to lucidity,

 

“Don’t talk back to them, okay? Try to act the way they want and keep saying you’re sorry. We’ll find a reason to make them stop, I promise. Hold on.”

 

Lloyd doesn’t really give much of a response, but it’s the best Bucky can do as he pulls a dazed Steve to his feet and tries to be thankful it didn’t get any worse.

 

***

 

Mr. Atherton makes Lloyd stay outside on the back porch without any clothes on for the entire day, chaining his leg to the railing just to be certain he won’t sneak back in. Steve is fit to be tied himself and tallies up some impressive bruises thanks to his constant attempts to sneak out with clothes or blankets. He’s not even the only boy who tries. Classes are full of silent, tense students, who are afraid of looking their teachers in the eye, like they suddenly could be capable of anything. Outside, Lloyd won’t stop crying.

 

“It’s too cold,” Steve keeps insisting whenever he’s caught, getting more and more frantic each time. “And he’s already hurt. You’re going to kill him.”

 

Mr. Douglas can’t be bothered to care though, as usual. He just says,

 

“Mr. Atherton can punish a student however he sees fit. He doesn’t need your permission first.”

 

He goes into his office and shuts the door behind him. Steve is caught with an armful of blankets half an hour later, and Bucky is with him, mostly because he can’t talk Steve out of it. Mr. Stoller, who has been hovering around the edges this entire time, like he’s vaguely thinking about intervening but is too worried about his job to actually do it, watches Mr. Hodgson yell at the boys for a minute before he perks up and leaves to go to the shed. He comes back with a disgusting, filth-encrusted blanket that makes Bucky recoil when he see it.

 

“Kept it to use as scraps after the rats got to it but I never got around to tearing it up,” Stoller explains, looking proud of himself.

 

“And what do you want me to do with that?” Mr. Hodgson asks, distinctly unimpressed.

 

“Give it to Smith,” Mr. Stoller says, grinning. “Rogers is right. It’s too cold for him to be out there in his birthday suit. I normally wouldn’t give this blanket to a dog, but hey, it’ll be like Eckert’s re-enactment of the Battle at Wounded Knee all over again.”

 

Mr. Hodgson stares at him for another moment before he starts laughing. Mr. Stoller looks so pleased Bucky expects he’ll start floating if he puffs out anymore, but there’s a tightness at the corners of his eyes that betrays his uneasiness. Bucky wonders for a moment if Stoller thinks he’s actually being a mediator, if he thinks he’s actually helping by crawling up to the bigger bullies on his belly, trying to let them have their fun as he keeps his conscience in the clear. There’s something disgusting about a person who only helps so far as it’s safe, and also something unpleasantly familiar. Something squirms in the pit of Bucky’s stomach and then flares white hot into hatred directed towards Mr. Stoller, so intense it’s almost overwhelming. It almost matches the hatred he feels towards himself.

 

***

 

Steve is waiting in the main office when Bucky steps inside, like he’s been expecting him.

 

“What are you doing?” He asks quietly.

 

Bucky shrugs and tries not to look too guilty or too scared. Steve, of course, sees right through him.

 

“Mr. Douglas is on the phone,” he says, shortly. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

 

Despite the terse way it’s offered, Bucky can recognize an escape route when he sees it. Steve knows better than anyone how desperately Bucky has avoided Mr. Douglas’s office since the last time he was trapped in there, even though it was so long ago. Bucky has confessed to him about how he gets scared when he’s left alone in a room, because he can’t stop thinking about Mr. Douglas appearing from one of the darkened shadows like a bogeyman, waiting to trap him. Sometimes at night he wakes up thinking he feels hands on his body, trying to take off his pants. He always wakes up before anything else happens, and instead of feeling comforted by that, it only ever feels like he’s being toyed with, like a mouse after the cat pretends to let it go. And Steve has been there to watch him wake up from every dream. Steve knows that even getting this close to that office is intolerable to Bucky.

 

“He doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Steve repeats, a little louder, when Bucky just stares at him and says nothing.

 

“…I can wait,” Bucky finally manages, wishing his voice wasn’t so small. Steve explodes. Quietly.

 

“What the hell, Bucky?” He demands, hissing the words as he advances on Bucky, jabbing him sharply in the chest. “Are you just going to go in there and convince him to do whatever he wants and hope that that’s going to change anything? Don’t be an _idiot_.”

 

“So I should do what you’re doing?” Bucky snaps back. “Goad them into getting madder and madder at you until you end up out there with Lloyd? You’re not thinking this through, Steve. Going head to head with Atherton and his cronies doesn’t work and it never has. You’re just going to get hurt and it’s all going to be for _nothing_.”

 

“I have bigger plans than just shouting until someone listens,” Steve says none too cryptically. “And I promise you they’re better than you thinking you can walk into that office and bend Mr. Douglas’s ear like you’re – you’re Mata Hari or something.”

 

“They took his clothes, Steve,” Bucky says, almost pleading. “He’s out there, naked, and everyone can see him – can see how scared he is, and I heard Mr. Curtis and Mr. Rice _laughing_ about it. He’s scared and he can’t hide and they’re just laughing. I can’t let them do that, I can’t just leave him out there.”

 

“There are a lot of other ways to help him that’ll work better than _this_ ,” Steve says, even though Bucky imagines he’d be hard-pressed to name one.

 

“I’m not brave like you,” Bucky mutters, suddenly unable to meet Steve’s eyes. “I can’t keep standing up to them just because it’s the right thing when I know nothing’s gonna change.”

 

“Nothing’s gonna change if you go into that office,” Steve says, softly. “It won’t end up with Mr. Douglas magically caring about what happens to Lloyd. We’ll solve this another way, alright? Just trust me?”

 

“You promise your plan involves something better than yelling at them?” Bucky asks, because he’s a coward and because he can’t ever say no to Steve.

 

“I promise,” Steve reassures, and he looks so determined Bucky actually believes him, even though Steve doesn’t elaborate. Bucky walks away the direction he came with his skin still crawling, still feeling like he’s useless and a bad person. When he sees Mr. Stoller walking down the hallway in the opposite direction, he wishes he was strong enough to punch him so hard the man’s skull would cave in.

 

***

 

Mr. Douglas does actually pay enough attention to the mood in the school to half-heartedly tell Mr. Atherton to at least relocate Lloyd down to the boiler room before he leaves for the night.

 

“I’m not going to clean up another one of your messes for you,” he says vaguely. “Don’t let this get out of hand.”

 

As if it’s not out of hand already. Still, Mr. Douglas’s word is law on the rare occasions when it’s given, so Mr. Atherton orders Mr. Hodgson to collect Lloyd. He gives Steve an appraising look, who has been lurking in Mr. Atherton’s vicinity all day, casting him baleful looks.

 

“Remember to lock the door from the outside,” he instructs Mr. Hodgson. “And keep the key with you. Just to be sure no one’s dumb enough to try anything.”

 

He grins at Steve, who lets out a sound almost like a snarl and starts to move towards Mr. Atherton blindly until Bucky yanks him back.

 

“Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll fix it tomorrow. At least he’s not outside, right?”

 

“Sure,” Steve says, flatly, but he goes to the dorm room when Bucky leads him away. He doesn’t say anything else the entire evening, which is a switch for Steve, and an alarming one at that. It feels like he’s drifting further and further out of Bucky’s grasp somehow, and all Bucky wants is to wrap his arms around Steve, to hold on and never let go.

 

But Steve remains stubbornly distant all evening. He keeps looking at Bucky whenever Bucky’s attention is elsewhere, and from the corner of his eyes, Bucky registers a hungry distraught look on Steve’s features every time it happens. The face is always carefully impassive when Bucky looks at him full on, though, and nothing Bucky says can convince him to reveal what’s going on inside his head.

 

It takes hours to fall asleep that night. Bucky wishes it was because he’s so concerned about how they’re going to help Lloyd, but that’s not what keeps his heart hammering against his ribcage until exhaustion finally wins out. It’s the clawing realization that the next morning when he opens his eyes, he _knows_ Steve won’t be there anymore. He doesn’t know why Steve is planning to take off without him, but he knows Steve, and he knows he’s about to be abandoned by him. Not for the first time, Bucky thinks he may die without Steve, and in those moments before sleep finally overtakes him, nothing is more terrifying than the thought of dying alone.

 

***

 

He feels the tears building up behind his eyes even before he opens them the next morning, to something that sounds like screaming or yelling coming from a long ways away. He strains so hard to listen he almost misses the crinkling noises coming from right next to his ear, where his hand is clenching into a fist underneath his pillow. Reluctantly he sits up in the dim morning light, rubbing angrily at his eyes. His eyes skirt quickly over the empty bed where Steve Rogers should be, and he tries hard not to feel betrayed. It’s still dark enough that making out Steve’s ever impeccable script is just about impossible, until Bucky cautiously takes the pieces of paper over to the east window and better light.

 

_“Buck,_

_Please don’t be mad, but I had to go. I had to help Lloyd, and I couldn’t let you get hurt either, even if it was to help him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I know I’m probably going to get caught because this is all happening too fast to be careful and I couldn’t risk it._

_I found some records while I was filing all the correspondence for that stupid dairy program a few days ago. Mr. Douglas, Mr. Atherton, and a few of the other teachers have been taking money from the food budget and doctoring the records to cover it up. I pulled a few pages out of the ledger where you can see where the money is supposed to go and matched it up with delivery receipts that show the personal expenses it’s really being spent on. It’s clear as day what’s going on once you know what to look for, and there’s no way they’d be able to explain it away if someone caught them._

_I left you a couple of pages in case they think you had something to do with this and you need some leverage, but the rest I took with me and I’m going to take it to a reporter or something. I’m going to run all of them out of here, and then once I know you’re safe I’ll start looking for ways to get you out. Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of this._

_Steve.”_

 

Bucky’s senses are simultaneously deadened and on overload when he stops reading. He can hear the far off noises, dimly registering that they’re almost certainly distressed now, and he can feel the rough course paper held in a hand that no longer feels connected to his body. He starts sweating and can hear his breathing grow jagged as stares at the extra papers, too alarmed to take in the information on them. Bucky has no idea what Steve was thinking because these papers are _not_ leverage. Any student unlucky enough to be caught with them will be as good as dead. He imagines the screaming getting louder as he thinks about how blindly furious Mr. Atherton would be if he caught loud argumentative Steve Rogers holding papers that could potentially result in jail time. He thinks he’s going to be sick, and he has to fight the urge to sink to his knees and start crying in a huddle on the floor because people are going to be killed over this. Steve might actually die and everything inside him is paralyzed.

 

He spins around the room blindly, trying to light on a good hiding place. The first place they’ll check is under his and Steve’s mattresses, and if he leaves it too close to any of the other boys, he’ll only end up hurting more innocent people. He tugs at his hair a little and is wandering into the centre of the room when the radiator under the window suddenly hisses and starts to leak. It’s been too long since they’ve been bled, his brain unhelpfully tells him. Someone needs to take care of them before they all start leaking. He remembers Mr. Snyder bragging to someone that they were state-of-the-art when they were installed – the first boarding school with central heating.

 

It feels like it was a life time ago, and Bucky’s certain no one has looked at them properly since. His feet stumble back to the radiator almost against his will, his body in full fight-or-flight readiness and protesting the way his back is now to the door every step of the way. He sinks to his knees to look at the water trickling from the side valve, dripping into the gap in the floor below, where the floorboards don’t quite match to make room for the pipes. Cautiously, he reaches down and slides his hand alongside the radiator. Bucky can move his arm around awkwardly until he hits the closest joist. It’s awkward to maneuver and Bucky is worried that he might not be able to get pull his hand back if he lets go at the wrong time, but he manages to wedge the papers into the space and out of sight, between the floorboards and the beam.

 

The sounds from the boiler room feel like they’re travelling up through the pipes at this point, and an especially jarring shriek spurs Bucky to his feet. He’s already at the door when Mr. Eckert rips it open, zeroing in on Bucky instantly and snarling,

 

“Where the fuck is it, Barnes?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky says, not bothering to mask the alarm in his voice. “Where did Steve go? Is he hurt?”

 

Mr. Eckert narrows his eyes, ignoring the slowly waking students all around him.

 

“Don’t give me that, Barnes,” he spits. “You two do everything together. You were in on this.”

 

“In on _what_? Bucky begs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. _Where is he_?”

 

Mr. Eckert slaps Bucky so hard he falls over and his head hits the trunk at the end of Elmer’s bed.

 

“Don’t waste your time, Martin,” He hears through the ringing in his ears as he clutches at the back of his head.

 

Mr. Hodgson is there looking every bit as angry as Mr. Eckert.

 

“Kid was out like a light when they took off, slept through the whole thing. I guess Rogers didn’t think he’d need to buy any more protection from him once he escaped.”

 

“Steve ran away?” Bucky asks. “He’s gone?”

 

“Oh, I never said he was gone,” Hodgson says as he crosses the room to pull apart Steve’s bed. “Next time your little shit of a boyfriend gets it into his head to become a snitch, he might not want to try and rob me first. I’m a notoriously light sleeper, something he’s learned the hard way.”

 

“Where is he?” Bucky demands again.

 

Mr. Hodgson laughs, but his face remains thunderous.

 

“Makes no difference to you, Barnes,” he says. “You’re not going to be seeing him again, anyhow.”

 

 

***

 

There was never really a question about where Steve was. There’s only one place the bad students go to be punished, and if one thing is absolutely certain, it’s that Steve has been officially labelled “bad.” Things might not be quite so bleak right now if Mr. Hodgson had gotten up the second he heard Steve creep into his room and steal the keys to the boiler room. Even Steve wasn’t so reckless that he was about to wander into that room with a record of Mr. Hodgson’s criminal offences. But instead of confronting Steve, Mr. Hodgson had feigned sleep until Steve got a head start and followed him to see what he would do. After picking up an armful of papers and spare clothes, Steve had of course gone for Lloyd. Mr. Hodgson had been laughing again when he told an increasingly distraught Bucky how hopeful Steve had started to look before he stopped them, like he thought he might be getting away with it.

 

It stopped being quite so entertaining when Mr. Eckert had been called in to lend a hand and figured out just what was in the papers Steve was holding. As Mr. Hodgson seems all too willing to tell him, by the time Mr. Douglas arrived and determined that there were still more records unaccounted for, “the little faggot was bleeding from places he’s probably only dreamed about bleeding from before.”

 

Mr. Eckert rolls his eyes and only says,

 

“You really want to help your friend? You tell us where he hid those papers.”

 

Bucky lets out a sound of distress and goes to see if, just maybe, the door to the boiler room is unlocked. Mr. Douglas catches him on the stairs on his way up and hauls him back with him, by the collar.

 

“Watch yourself, Barnes,” he says, angrily. “You do not want to test my patience today.”

 

Mr. Douglas’s hand leaves smears of blood on Bucky’s shirt when he takes it away, and Bucky is certain none of it belongs to Mr. Douglas.

 

School is a waste of everyone’s time that day, and not just for Bucky. His and Steve’s classroom happens to be above the boiler room, not too far down the hall, and Bucky had been right that morning. The sound carries through the pipes. Even the boys who hate Lloyd or who just want Steve to shut up look sick every time they hear a scream. The threats from the teacher go unheard. Preston stands at the board for 10 minutes trying to solve a problem before finally breaking chalk by gripping it too tightly, when a sound comes out of the basement that doesn’t even sound human.

 

Bucky sits at his desk with his hands shaking so hard that Mr. Rice whips them with the ruler as he walks past, telling him not to be such a distraction. Bucky sits on them after that, trying to be still, giving up and letting the tears fall down his face as he constantly cranes his neck towards the radiator, trying to make sense of the muted words being spoken an entire floor away. He catches himself waiting for each scream, praying for it, because if Steve is screaming it means he’s still alive. He’s forced himself to stop listening for Lloyd; Lloyd hasn’t made a noise in over an hour. Bucky doesn’t know what he’ll do if Steve goes quiet, too.

 

In the moments after each scream, Bucky forces himself to abandon his mindless vigil and think. He thinks about Steve’s plan and why it failed, and can only come up with two reasons: Steve is a kind person, and; Steve didn’t let Bucky help. That he was left out of Steve’s plan still stings, even if Bucky can understand why Steve would leave him out of a suicide mission at all costs. Bucky likes to think he’d do the same for Steve, after all. But what’s so infuriating is that it didn’t have to be a plan doomed to failure. If Steve had just opened his damned stubborn mouth and asked Bucky’s advice, none of this would have happened, because Steve and Bucky are at their best when they’re able to compensate for each other’s weaknesses. All Steve’s plan was really missing was a coward to bring a little common sense to the table, and Bucky is happy to be that coward. He just hopes that he gets the chance to do what needs to be done before it’s too late.

 

***

 

It seems unlikely that any of the teachers will be dumb enough to believe that Bucky can be trusted on his own tonight, and he’s right. Instead of their usual once-a-night headcount, they seem to be stopping by the room at random intervals at least every other hour. Bucky is starting to get frantic, because he _knows_ there’s only going to be a small window of opportunity to get to Steve and Lloyd. He’s started to get up three different times only to be forced to dive back into bed, clothes and even shoes on underneath the sheets, feigning sleep as various teachers pull open the dormitory door and look in.

 

After the door closes shut the fourth time, Bucky can’t stop the desperate little sob from escaping. He thinks he might go crazy. He almost jumps out of his skin when he feels a light tap on his shoulder. Jack Preston, of all people, is standing there with a finger to his lips. Bucky stares at him blankly for a moment until Preston indicates his own bed. Bucky glances over, rubs his eyes, and stares again, because it looks like there’s still someone sleeping there. After a moment he notices Preston’s pillow is nowhere in sight, and glancing down the row of beds, a few of the other boys are missing pillows as well.

 

Preston pushes at Bucky until Bucky clambers out of the bed none too gracefully; he crawls into the vacated space and grins.

 

“We have the same hair colour, and yours is the only bed they’re really looking at anyhow,” he whispers.

 

“You’ll get in trouble,” Bucky says weakly. He can’t begin to understand why Preston is doing this for Steve at all, but he still doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt. Not even Jack Preston.

 

Preston only scoffs at that.

 

“I won’t still be in here by the time they’ve figured out you’re gone – not unless you screw up. I’ll kill you myself if you do that.”

 

Preston pulls up the covers and rolls over, and he’s right. There’s no way to tell that Bucky isn’t the one sleeping there.

 

Bucky doesn’t bother with a coat or extra clothes, he’s only focused on getting out and giving everyone as little incentive as possible to go chasing after him. It takes him far longer than he’d like to work the papers free from the space under the floor, they’re at such an awkward angle and wedged in far better than he’d thought. In the end, he never does succeed in pulling out the last paper, but closer inspection shows that it’s Steve’s letter, and it’s probably better if he doesn’t have that on him, anyhow.

 

Before he goes to the staff wing and Mr. Hodgson’s room, he slips into the front office, shoes in hand to be extra careful. Sliding open the bottom filing drawer is agonizing, and Bucky actually feels tears slide down his face when the weight of the paper inside causes everything to groan. He forces himself to keep going though, and cautiously slides the papers into one of the files at random, making sure to keep one of the corners significantly raised. He’s been listening to Steve complain about these drawers for years now; he knows exactly how to cause paperwork to get snagged and dragged to the back of the drawer, leaving it unable to shut properly. He only hopes Mr. Douglas won’t be too stupid to miss it in the morning. Everyone will know how the evidence really ended up there, of course, but leaving it here feels safer than in the dorm rooms, were the blame could be placed on anyone.

 

Hoping to pacify them by giving them what they want is the coward’s way out and Bucky knows it. He knows it’s not what Steve wanted, that Steve wanted to save everyone at the school, and give them all a chance to come out of this place with a real shot at living, but Bucky isn’t Steve. He feels awful, like he’s betraying everyone here, but sometimes you have to look out for yourself and ignore the other people around you. Sometimes if you try to change the entire world all at once, you can’t even change your own piece of it, and Steve is so incredibly selfless, it falls to Bucky to be selfish for both of them. If Barry’s is going to topple one day, they won’t be the ones doing the pushing.

 

There’s a close call on the way to Hodgson when he almost walks straight into Mr. Rice, evidently just getting back from doing a perimeter check, probably looking for Bucky. Bucky flattens himself into the darkest corner at the end of the hallway and luckily, Mr. Rice’s sleepy tunnel vision means he doesn’t notice anyone else nearby before he shuffles back into his room. Even quieter than before, Bucky slides into Mr. Hodgson’s room. Before Bucky was sent here he was in the habit of slipping into other people’s homes to steal food when there was nothing for him at his own place. While it’s true that he was caught eventually, he’s still confident that he’s damn well better than Steve at burglary.

 

After quietly looking around the room until he finds what he needs, he slides his sock feet lightly along the floor boards feeling for any kind of give beneath him that will make noise. He glides right past the key ring without looking twice at it, straight to the bookshelf beside Mr. Hodgson’s bed. Really, you can hardly call it a bookshelf, just a single board hammered into the wall and held in place by a pair of rickety old brackets. It’s fairly high and just to the right of Hodgson’s head and Bucky lets himself smile when he reaches it. He’d been prepared to make do with whatever he could find no matter how bad it looked, but here is all opportunity he needs to mask his actions.

 

Bucky looks at the books over Mr. Hodgson’s head closely, then carefully picks the thickest one – some encyclopedia volume with heavy, top-notch paper and a well-bound spine. He hefts it in his hand a few times, letting himself get a feel for it, then he turns it slightly so the spine faces away from him, and towards Mr. Hodgson. There’s a sickening crack when the spine makes contact with his teacher’s skull, and Mr. Hodgson lets out a brief, cut off moan in his sleep, his body tensing before going limp. Bucky wishes he could hit him again, maybe see if another hit would make the man stop breathing before he shakes himself, and gets back to the task at hand.

 

It doesn’t take much to knock out the bracket closest to the bed; the weight of the books on the improperly mounted board have done a lot of the work for him already. Bucky carefully eases the shelf down so only the one side sags and it doesn’t fall down completely. The books shower onto Mr. Hodgson’s head and the bed around his pillow, making very little noise. Come next morning it will look like an accident, and hopefully one that will distract everyone quite some time before anyone sees that three students are missing. For tonight, it will provide a little more reassurance that Bucky won’t be caught making off with Hodgson’s keys.

 

He’s shaking again by the time he reaches the bottom of the basement stairs and approaches the boiler room doors. Getting this far is no guarantee of actually getting away with it. The fact that Steve is locked up down here at all attests to that, but at the moment Bucky is thinking more about his past failures than any future ones. He almost wants to turn around and go back to bed, to pretend that tonight never happened, because keeping Steve safe is his job, and now he has to go into that room and face what a terrible friend he really is. A better person would have never let this happen.

 

The door is heavy and creaks when it opens, but Bucky manages to quiet most of the noise by lifting it up on its hinges as he swings it shut. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the poor lighting, but after a moment he hears a moan and sees something shift in a far corner. Steve is lying on the awful rat-eaten mattress, trying to curl into a ball and whimpering at the movement.

 

“Jesus, you stupid ass,” Bucky mutters, weak with relief, because he’d been half expecting to find a body down here once things went quiet last night, even though he knew the crying had only stopped when the teachers gave up for the evening.

 

He goes over to the mattress and cautiously rolls Steve over onto his back. Steve makes a louder noise of distress at the motion, and Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, suddenly very focused on not throwing up.

 

In the dim light coming in from the single high window, Steve’s face is twisted and distorted. His nose is definitely broken, and the left side of his face is so swollen and dark Bucky is worried some bones in his skull might be broken, too. His lips are bloody and wet and gaping horribly; there’s so much blood running down his chin, Bucky thinks Steve may have bitten a hole clean through them, but it’s impossible to tell in the dark. Both of his eyes are swollen shut, and blood is pooling in his right ear. Bucky realizes with a start that his friend is crying and shaking his head. Steve doesn’t even know who’s in the room with him.

 

“It’s okay, bud,” Bucky says, leaning down and softly speaking into Steve’s good ear. “It’s me. I fixed your stupid plan and now I’m getting you out of here for real, okay? It’ll be okay.”

 

“J’mes?” Steve gasps out, slurring, and Bucky can feel the bony chest fluttering, like Steve’s forgotten how to breathe. Almost instinctively he goes to lift up Steve’s bloody shirt and starts to rest his hand there, but stops when he looks down and sees the welts and bruises, even visible in the dark. Of course this isn’t just an asthma attack; it’s a wonder Steve’s ribcage hasn’t collapsed.

 

“It’s me, Steve,” Bucky promises. “We’ve got to get out of here now. Where’s Lloyd? Did they take him somewhere else?”

 

Steve stills at that and for a moment Bucky thinks he may have passed out, but after a few heartbeats, Steve mutters.

 

“Lloyd’s gone.”

 

“Do you know where they put him?” Bucky tries again. “I have all of Hodgson’s keys right here, and he won’t be getting up any time soon. We can go find him.”

 

Bucky doesn’t particularly want to risk it, but he knows Steve won’t leave without Lloyd there, too, and deep down Bucky knows it wouldn’t sit well with him either. Apart from Steve, Lloyd’s the only other kid here who really _needs_ him.

 

“ ‘s gone,” Steve repeats, hollowly. “He wouldn’t stop crying and crawling away, Ath’tn kicked’m into th’ wall.”

 

Steve swallows hard and Bucky tries to shush him, knowing where this is going and not wanting to hear it. Steve keeps talking anyhow.

 

“ ‘s head just… twisted ‘n stayed that way. Didn’ move after.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky soothes past the lump in his own throat as he strokes Steve’s hair, because this is on him, too. “Okay. We’re going to come back and we’re going to make them pay for this, okay? I promise. But right now we have to leave. I think I have to carry you, okay? Fuck, I’m sorry, pal, but I think it’s really going to hurt. Do you think you can stay quiet, no matter what?”

 

Steve makes a noise that Bucky chooses to believe is an affirmative, so he carefully pulls Steve into a fireman’s carry, wincing and whispering apologies whenever Steve can’t keep the distressed noises in. There are noises on the floor above them when Bucky edges out into the hall, but Steve hardly weighs anything, so it’s not hard to wait until they’ve stopped. The stairs creak once or twice on the way up, thanks to Bucky’s now shoed feet and the extra weight he’s carrying, but no one jumps out and stops them. It’s hard to find the right key and keep hold of Steve, who very obviously passed out somewhere between the steps and the back door, but after about five minutes Bucky finds the right one and is stepping outside. He resolutely doesn’t think about Lloyd as they walk past the chain on the porch, still sitting where Mr. Eckert dropped it a few days ago.

 

He sticks to the shadows, choosing his direction by walking along the high fence on the side of the school away from the faculty dorms. He actually has to prop Steve up against the side of the fence and shake him awake, leaving him on unsteady feet as he finds the final key and pushes hard at the heavy, groaning gate, feeling utterly exposed and like the entire school is watching. He hauls Steve outside as soon as it’s opened enough for them to squeeze through before yanking it shut behind them, careful to lock it again when he’s done. Finally he throws the keys back over the gate as hard as he can, listening for the soft thud that indicates they’ve landed in the grass on the other side. One day he’ll come back here, he tells himself again. One day he and Steve will be back, and these people are going to pay.


	3. Century of Sleep, Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a bit of a rough haul with this chapter, I'm afraid. The boys are still pretty (understandably) messed up about what happened BUT! This is also the chapter where things slowly start turning around. Like, I'm _really_ hoping this chapter will end on a positive note for most of you, and with the promise of more positivity to come. So that's something, right? But yes. Blanket apologies once again for the horrible things I am doing to these characters. 
> 
> Oh, and unrelated fun fact: I swear to god the research for this chapter almost outed me as a Captain America fic writer to my co-workers, because apparently I know a _little_ too much about the history of the gentrification of Brooklyn for someone who's never even been to NYC. Oops. (Also, in case you are not aware, [this delightful piece of meta](http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/213805.html) from thingswithwings is pretty damn nifty if you want to know a little more about Steve's and Bucky's neighbourhood.)
> 
> I should also mention that this fic is (as many of you have sorted out) all about the delayed gratification. But almost more than that, it is about delayed _knowledge_ of gratification, so don't worry if it doesn't feel like people are getting what is coming to them. Groundwork is already being laid for what I hope will be some very satisfying justice. Many people can tell you how unpleasant writing these first few chapters has been for me, simply because this high level of suffering really isn't my endgame, here. I don't like unhappy endings, I like when the good guys kick ass and take names. Victory vengeance. That is my endgame. Try to remember that for just a little while longer. And again: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, etc. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness), and to everyone for all of your support and encouraging comments!

 

 

 

Steve won’t stop coughing, and Bucky breaks a little at the keening, pained noises that escape from him every time it happens. The night is bitterly cold, especially for Steve, who’s still just in a thin undershirt and pants. He’s started shaking now, too, and he can’t support his own weight; he can barely stand. Bucky won’t pick him up though, terrified of carrying him through the busy Brooklyn streets. Most New Yorkers tend to mind their own business, more so the later it gets, but Steve already looks like he picked a fistfight with a street car as it is. If he has to be carried besides, someone _will_ notice, and once they get noticed the police will come. They’ll be marched straight back to reform school, maybe different ones this time, and Bucky can’t let that happen. Steve might die a little sooner out here, but at least he won’t have to die like _that._

 

He tries to aim for places that seem to have less money, not going in any specific direction. None of the homes around the reform school are what anyone could call classy, but Bucky doesn’t want to stay so close to the school, especially in a part of town where two white boys are more likely to attract attention. They aren’t walking in the direction of Brownsville, unfortunately – Brownsville is about as rundown as it gets, and Bucky would feel safer walking in a direction that he knows, but there’s no questioning that the closer they get to the Brooklyn bridge, the easier Bucky breathes.

 

They walk for hours, stopping when they can find a quiet place for Steve to try to get his breath back. But in the end, Bucky can’t ignore the fact that Steve can’t be pushed any further, so Bucky faces the inevitable not long after they’ve put Fort Greene behind them, just when the first hints of daylight are touching the sky. He pulls Steve into an alley as gently as he can, away from the nonplussed faces of the especially committed prostitutes. One in particular (Bucky can’t honestly tell if it’s a man or woman) is staring hard at them and trying to hide it, casually taking a few steps their direction to get a better look.

 

Bucky tries to fashion a little bit of a shelter up against a dumpster with garbage bags and empty boxes. It’s not much, but at least the wind isn’t eating away at Steve’s too thin shirt anymore. He’s worried that he pushed Steve too hard tonight. The kid looks more like a Lon Chaney character than ever; Bucky has no idea how Steve can see anything beyond the swelling right now. His body is shaking so badly he literally cannot hold any of his own weight as he’s lowered to the ground. When Bucky carefully crouches down and eases his way in next to him, Steve shudders and lets out a little choked sob of pain and exhaustion. Bucky murmurs an apology into Steve’s ear, but he puts his arms around him instead of pulling away. Steve is still shivering and Bucky has to do _something_ to keep him warm. Just like he has to pretend that the shaking isn’t a sign of something worse than a bad chill.

 

He’s not sure how long they stay there like that. He doesn’t exactly fall asleep. Steve’s too bad off for him to do that, but he does tune out a little, trying to keep Steve’s whimpers to a minimum as he whispers soothing nonsense into Steve’s hair. He has to fight the urge to jerk Steve closer to him when the trash around them is unexpectedly shoved out of the way. Steve’s breathing has started to sound so laboured, Bucky’s not about to start dragging him around on top of everything else.

 

“Jesus,” comes a man’s shocked voice. “What happened to you two?”

 

“He fell,” Bucky grits out. “We were waiting for my dad to come give us a ride, but there were some punks wandering around and he got scared. So we were waiting where no one could see us.”

 

The man looks far too nice to be in this part of Brooklyn at this time of day. He is also clearly not believing a word that comes out of Bucky’s mouth, although he raises a curious eyebrow when Bucky says “punks” that Bucky can’t quite interpret. Steve isn’t helping things much. He’s come to just enough to realize that Bucky is talking to someone that isn’t him.

 

“Gotta go, gotta go,” he keeps muttering. “Can’t go back.”

 

“Your dad, huh?” The man says, looking more unimpressed by the second. “Look, kid… maybe I should call someone. I’m a doctor, and your friend looks like he’s in a lot of trouble. It’s alright if you’ve got nowhere to go. There are places where you can get help. There’re some orphanages a few neighbourhoods over, or a boy’s school –“

 

“ _No_.” Bucky cuts him off sharply. “Just leave. Please. I’m waiting for my dad, I promise.  He’s at the docks.”

 

“You’re lying,” The man says, not unkindly as he kneels down in the dirty alley to get a closer look at Steve, setting down a black bag beside them. Steve has opened his eyes now (as much as they _can_ open and Christ, Steve looks _bad_ ) and he starts honest to god _crying_ when the man reaches out to put a hand on his forehead.

 

Bucky has never seen Steve show his fear to anyone and it alarms Bucky so much that he blurts out “I’m sorry. Just don’t let anyone know where we are. Please.”

 

“He needs help,” the man insists, looking more than a little worried himself as Steve, disoriented as he is, struggles to push back into Bucky’s arms, and further away from the stranger.

 

“So?” Bucky says. “You said you’re a doctor. Help him.”

 

The man looks at him intently before asking,

 

“You boys runaways? Is that what’s going on here? Who exactly are you running away from?”

 

“An orphanage,” Bucky says, thinking fast. “We ran from an orphanage. A few miles off. The one with all the nuns. Please don’t make us go back?”

 

The man doesn’t look remotely convinced as his gaze slides back to Steve and the blood seeping into his shirt.

 

“You’re saying nuns did this,” he says.

 

“The other kids,” Bucky says, desperately. “They had it in for him.”

 

The man sighs in frustration, leaning back onto his heels as he stares off vacantly into the distance. Finally his shoulders slump a little in defeat and Bucky thinks he hears “son of a bitch” before the man gestures to Steve and says,

 

“You win. Help me get him up.”

 

“Why?” Bucky asks suspiciously. “Where do you want to take him?”

 

“I wouldn’t say I _want_ to take him anywhere, but I _do_ want to be able to sleep at night without the death of a child on my conscience. I’m taking both of you home where I can look after him. I certainly can’t make do with what I brought, and he should be in from the cold, anyhow.”

 

Bucky stays where he is and grips Steve’s shirt tighter.

 

“We can’t pay you anything,” he says, carefully.

 

“I already caught onto that, thanks,” says the man, impatient now.  “Look, son, I understand that you don’t trust me, but your friend looks like he’s going to die if he stays out here. All I care about is keeping that from happening. Can you manage carrying the bag?”

 

Bucky is motionless for a moment more before he finally relaxes his grip on Steve and allows the man to pull Steve up into his arms. He scrambles quickly to his feet (grabbing the bag as he goes) when Steve starts trying to struggle weakly to get away. He pushes Steve’s hair out of his eyes and whispers,

 

“It’s okay, Steve. I’m right here.”

 

He risks a glance back at the man’s – the doctor’s – face before they leave.

 

“Please don’t send us back,” he says again.

 

“To the orphanage,” the man clarifies. “That place you definitely came from, because you wouldn’t be foolish enough to lie about that in such a serious situation?”

 

“Right.” Bucky nods. “Thank you.”

 

“Come on,” the man says, heaving another sigh. “Just try and keep up with me, alright?”

 

He doesn’t need to tell Bucky. Bucky is never letting Steve out of his sight again.

 

***

 

The doctor's name is Bowers, but he wants Bucky to call him Joseph. Bucky's mind rebels at calling someone so important to Steve's wellbeing by something so casual, but he stays quiet about it. He's not about to be openly defiant towards the person currently holding Steve’s life in his hands.

 

Meeting Dr. Bowers’ wife only further convinces Bucky that this is not a first name situation. Mrs. Bowers is the perfect picture of a newlywed housewife. She is slight and delicate, and when she hears the door to the small apartment open, she comes into the entryway from the kitchen wearing an apron and a happy smile on her face. Bucky can hear bacon sizzling on a frying pan behind her. She looks like a Campbell’s Soup advertisement, not an actual person. The smile freezes and then falters when she sees Dr. Bowers only slightly stumbling under Steve's weight. (Steve’s hardly heavy, but they’ve been walking for a long time, and he’s been deadweight for a lot of it, except for when he wakes up long enough to get confused and ask about Lloyd.) The smile abandons her completely and she covers her mouth, eyes wide, when she looks down at the floor by Dr. Bowers' feet.

 

Bucky follows her gaze and sees a small drop of blood on the ground, soon followed by another. Bucky glances at Steve, but he can’t sort out where it’s coming from. He absently wonders what the etiquette is for this situation – for him or Mrs. Bowers. Before he can get too caught up in his thoughts, she makes a little displeased sound and turns back into the kitchen for a moment before she darts off into another room, calling over her shoulder,

 

“It would be nice if you told me what _kind_ of a house call you’re going on, Joseph, so you could at least give me a chance to get the spare room in order.”

 

“Well, _I_ didn’t know, did I?” Dr. Bowers says, exasperated. “All he said was, ‘there’s a sick boy in the neighbourhood;’ there wasn’t a single mention of beatings or homelessness or head injuries.”

 

“I don’t see why you couldn’t ask for more details every now and then,” she calls from the room. “Alright, I’ve stripped the bed down to the sheets and that will have to do for now. Come on – we need to get those clothes off of him.”

 

Dr. Bowers pauses to take another look at Steve before he purses his lips and follows his wife. Bucky feels invisible, forgotten, and very alarmed. He doesn’t want to walk into a stranger’s house without permission, but he wants to follow Steve. Of course, he’s not sure if it’s justifiable at this point, when it’s obvious no one is planning on hurting him. Does he take off his shoes first? Sit on the couch until they call him? They’ve been sleeping next to a dumpster, and when Bucky looks down, he’s wearing a lot of Steve’s blood. Maybe it’s best if he stands very still in the doorway and tries not to touch anything. His resolve breaks the second he hears Steve waking up again and crying out in distress.

 

He barges through the apartment and is in the bedroom before Steve is even finished speaking, setting the medical bag next to Dr. Bowers. Steve is struggling to sit up and slide off the far side of the bed, pulling away from the unfamiliar hands of Dr. and Mrs. Bowers.

 

“It’s okay, Stevie,” he says, walking to the far side of the bed and touching Steve’s now naked shoulder. “Let them help you okay?”

 

But Steve keeps pushing Dr. Bowers away when they try to take off his trousers, mumbling, “I’m fine, ‘m fine,” over and over.

 

“I really don’t think you are,” Dr. Bowers finally says, quieter and more gently than he’s been talking to Bucky or Mrs. Bowers. “If you’re uncomfortable with me doing this, I can leave while Mrs. Bowers or your friend help you. Mrs. Bowers has helped me with hurt patients before, and sometimes it’s easier, but I’m afraid I’ll have to look you over eventually. No matter what.”

 

Steve lets out a horrible, broken little noise that reminds Bucky of the animalistic screaming he heard coming from the boiler room and huddles in on himself. Bucky’s instinctively hauling himself up onto the bed before his brain even has a chance to form a proper thought.

 

“Don’t be upset, Steve,” he says, making sure he’s speaking towards the ear that isn’t bleeding, because he’s noticed Steve craning his neck a lot more to keep it facing whoever’s talking. “I’ll stay right here.”

 

“No,” Steve is saying, shaking his head adamantly. He’s starting to look miffed, maybe at himself more than anything, that he can’t muster up the words to explain himself. “It’s not – that’s not –“

 

“No one wants to judge you,” Dr. Bowers says, cautiously, like he’s trying a different approach. “I have many patients from your part of town. There’s not a lot I haven’t seen, and I’m not interested in asking lots of questions if you don’t want to answer them.”

 

“I _can’t_ ,” Steve says, voice cracking, and he looks so frustrated Bucky almost expects him to climb to his feet and storm out, despite the shape he’s in. It’s all he can do to coax him to lean back and lie still.

 

“Joseph?”

 

Bucky starts a little at Mrs. Bowers’ voice, who has been so quiet, he almost forgot she was there. He looks around to see her holding Steve’s shirt, her hands in the sleeves like she’s just turned it inside-out. Bucky can’t quite tell if she looks upset or angry. Maybe both.

 

“I think I might know what the problem is. May I?”

 

Dr. Bowers moves back and to the side as Mrs. Bowers slowly approaches the bed, like she’s giving Steve and Bucky plenty of time to process what she’s doing.

 

“I’m very sorry, Steven – may I call you Steven?”

 

Steve is quiet for a minute before he cautiously corrects,

 

“Steve.”

 

“Steve,” Mrs. Bowers nods, right next to him now. “I’ve very sorry, Steve. I don’t think you’re going to be happy with me, but I promise this will only take a second.”

 

Setting down the shirt on the night table, she warily reaches forward and takes a hold of Steve pants. Steve is stiff as a board as she undoes them; it doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. But the second she gently tries to start tugging them down his legs, Steve shudders so violently it almost looks like he’s having some kind of fit, his hand flailing out to grip Bucky’s shirt.

 

Mrs. Bowers apologises again and lets her hands hover awkwardly until she’s sure Steve isn’t going to try to sit up again before she looks over her shoulder and says,

 

“I think there’s too much blood, Joseph. I think that’s why he woke up in the first place.”

 

She picks up Steve’s shirt again and holds it out. Bucky looks, too, and feels sick. Despite how caked on the blood had been, Steve’s shirt was relatively dry by the time Dr. Bowers found them. Now the inside almost looks like it glistens in the early light. Bucky cautiously rolls Steve towards him slightly, wincing when Steve flinches at the movement. Fresh trails of blood are coursing sluggishly down his back, staining the sheets and causing them to stick slightly to Steve’s skin. Staring at it, Bucky thinks about how badly Steve’s clothes must be pulling where it’s started to dry and scab over, and feels even worse about making Steve walk so far. He swallows hard as the lets Steve lie back again, rubbing at his arm and shoulder in a way that he hopes is reassuring. It’s about the only part of Steve he’s not scared to touch.

 

Dr. Bowers leans forward to lightly touch at the stiff material covering Steve’s thighs before admitting,

 

“I may have to cut him out.”

 

That seems like an awful idea to Bucky, since it doesn’t sound like it will hurt any less, but in the end, Mrs. Bowers leaves the room saying she has a better idea. She draws a lukewarm bath and helps Steve sit in it until the material loosens enough to slip off without reopening too many cuts. It’s not ideal – the water obviously stings at the open wounds dreadfully, but it’s still better than forcing off the rest of his clothes. It also gives Bucky a chance to clean a lot of the grime and dried blood off of Steve.

 

They sit in the small bathroom quietly, Bucky cautiously cleaning Steve’s skin around the cuts and welts. In the other room he can hear the Bowers talking, their voices low and urgent. Once he hears, “about Lloyd” and “dead” coming from Dr. Bowers, and an distressed reply from Mrs. Bowers. Bucky tenses, because as much as he wants to make people pay for what happened, he wants to stay far away from the school when it happens. For the time being he tries not to worry too much and focuses on cleaning Steve up. He wants to get the blood out of Steve’s hair, too, but Steve, who appears to be steadily regaining his lucidity, quietly asks for help getting out instead.

 

“I can’t sit anymore,” he admits. “Hurts.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky says, very carefully letting him clamber out on his own instead of just lifting him, because Steve’s coming around enough to get prickly when people manhandle him again. Even with all the practise he’s gotten, Steve has always been a surprisingly awful patient.

 

He’s a mess – oozing whip marks from the belts and rulers run all the way from his neck to his thighs and rear end, but there’s not much Dr. Bowers can do beyond applying liberal amounts of antiseptic and wrapping Steve’s lower torso like a mummy. He also applies an extra set of bandages to Steve’s ribcage, much tighter than the gauze.

 

“Your ribs are almost certainly bruised,” he explains. “Maybe even cracked, but wrapping them like this should give you some relief. Are you having trouble breathing?”  


“Always have trouble breathing,” Steve mutters, looking tired enough to fall over.

 

“He’s asthmatic,” Bucky explains distractedly, as he tries to encourage Steve to lean against him and take the weight off his upper body.

 

Dr. Bowers looks at them curiously, not for the first time since he’s brought them into his home. Still, he doesn’t comment like Bucky thinks he wants to, just asks Bucky for help turning Steve onto his stomach.

 

“Do you want your friend to stay?” Dr. Bowers asks.

 

Steve doesn’t answer but his hand reaches out, blindly searching until Bucky takes it.

 

“Okay,” Dr. Bowers says, acting like Steve hasn’t gone quiet at all. He goes to examine the backs of Steve’s legs. He keeps glancing from his work to look over at Bucky, eyes skirting away when he’s caught. There’s obviously a question he wants to ask and for the life of him, Bucky doesn’t know why he won’t just do it.

 

Finally Dr. Bowers decides to start things off with a cryptic,

 

“How many men?”

 

Even with his face pushed down into the covers, Bucky can see Steve’s ears start to turn red, like this is something he needs to be embarrassed about, like it’s his fault.

 

“I don’t know,” he says, in a voice that sounds strangely devoid of any emotion. “Two?”

 

Bucky starts so hard the bed moves.

 

“What?” He says, too alarmed to even consider their audience. “I thought it was just…”

 

He trails off when Steve starts shaking his head.

 

“No,” he says. “I’m missing pieces, and sometimes I couldn’t see, but I don’t think it was him at all. I don’t even think it was about _that_ – you know, anything perverted? I think they were just trying to scare me or punish me or something.”

 

“No, it was plenty perverted,” Dr. Bowers reassures, sounding beyond disgusted, but Bucky doesn’t think it sounds directed at Steve, which is a relief.

 

“Was it just you?” Bucky asks, hating himself for even opening his mouth. “I mean, did they do it to Lloyd before he –“

 

“No,” Steve says firmly. It’s all he says, and Bucky isn’t brave enough to keep asking.

 

“Who’s Lloyd?” Dr. Bowers asks. “You’ve said that name before. Is he in trouble?”

 

“No,” Steve’s voice is even more clipped than before.

 

“I can have someone sent to where you last saw him,” Dr. Bowers offers. “Just to make sure everything’s all right.”

 

“He doesn’t need any help,” Bucky says. “Do we have to talk about this?”

 

There’s silence for a while as Dr. Bowers acquiesces and focuses on cleaning up Steve’s legs, but before long he’s back at it.

 

“Did they give you their names? The men?”

 

Neither Bucky nor Steve say anything, so Dr. Bowers tries again,

 

“Do you know any names?” Dr. Bowers asks. “Were they regular customers?”

 

“Customers?” Steve finally says, bewildered.

 

“Acquaintances?” Dr. Bowers tries again, but suddenly the uneasy looks he’s been giving them start to make a lot more sense.

 

“We don’t do that,” Bucky says, staring him right in the eye, wishing everyone would stop treating them like they’re queer by default.

 

Dr. Bowers doesn’t seem convinced.

 

“I’m not going to be mad,” he promises, pausing to apologise when Steve jerks away as he deals with one of the infected welts.

 

“You’re both awfully young,” he continues after another moment. “But I understand how hard it can be to get by these days, what with the Depression and all. I just… it would help if you’re honest with me.”

 

“We’re not whores,” Bucky says, just a little louder. He knows if Dr. Bowers was thinking it, Mrs. Bowers likely was, too, but he’d still like to pretend she can’t hear any of this.

 

“Okay,” Dr. Bowers soothes. “Is there anything you _can_ tell me about the men? If people are out there attacking young boys, the police should be told.”

 

“You trying to get us arrested on top of everything else?” Bucky asks, incredulous. He knows what they say about gift horses, but it’s getting harder and harder to feel grateful.

 

Dr. Bowers looks slightly apologetic when he says,

 

“I really don’t think they’d treat anyone as young as you as criminals; just as a couple of kids who need some help. There’s a reason they created the Children’s Bureau, you know.”

 

Steve starts chuckling, making both Bucky and the doctor jump a little. There’s no energy behind it, but it still manages to border on hysterical. Bucky makes a few unconvincing hushing noises until Steve squeezes his hand a little tighter and says,

 

“What do you think they’d do if they decided we’d been selling ourselves on the street, Buck? Toss us into the nearest reform school until we got our acts together?”

 

“Your sense of humour’s certifiable, pal,” Bucky says, touching Steve’s hair and smiling despite himself. He glances back at Dr. Bowers, who’s giving them a different sort of calculating look now, like someone in the final moments of solving a math problem. Instead of saying anything more, however, he just turns his attention back to Steve.

 

He talks Steve through it – never lays a hand on him _there_ without giving him warning first, and he always waits to make sure Steve heard him (Bucky’s sure he’s not imagining it now – something’s off with Steve’s hearing). Steve isn’t very happy, but he’s not too alarmed by anything Dr. Bowers is doing either. It seems that when Dr. Bowers is doctoring and not questioning, he’s not bad at what he does.

 

When he notices Bucky staring at him in surprise after he’s finished “checking for tears” and Steve hasn’t made a peep (even though his face is bright red again), Dr. Bowers explains,

 

“I keep telling you this is nothing I haven’t seen before. I help out a lot of people in your part of town – or at least, the part of town where I found you. You learn to be very candid about what’s coming next or else you startle people and get kicked in the face.”

 

After a more awkward minutes while Dr. Bowers double checks a few things, he pulls away and says,

 

“Well, _that_ at least could have been worse. I think you’re going to be okay, Steve; just sore. I’ll make sure Helen gives you soup for the next few days, but the bleeding’s mostly stopped now.”

 

“The next few days?” Bucky repeats, dumbly.

 

“Did you think I was planning to send you back to the dumpster?” Dr. Bowers asks.

 

Bucky isn’t sure how to respond, because, yes actually, that’s exactly what he thought. Just then Mrs. Bowers comes into the room with a steaming basin of water and some clean linens on her arm.

 

“We really don’t want to be any more trouble,” Bucky tries, awkwardly, because most of his experience with prolonged kindness comes from Steve – certainly not from strangers. Mrs. Bowers waves him off.

 

“Joseph and I have been lending out this room for years now,” she says as she arranges the basin on the end table. “In the first year we were married, he came home four different times with sick strangers, and I brought home the fifth. It just seems to be something we do, and if it was more trouble than it was worth, we wouldn’t do it.”

 

She sets Bucky to work and has him changing the bed as she moves Steve to a soft chair where she finishes cleaning his hair and the parts of his body not swathed in bandages. The pyjamas she’s found for them are too big for Bucky and they dwarf Steve, but the clothes they were wearing look fit for an incinerator, so Bucky puts them on without too much protest. He’s not sure what to do after he’s got Steve settled in, but Mrs. Bowers impatiently scoots him towards the bed, too.

 

“Go on,” she says. “You look like you’re going to stop breathing every time he’s out of your sight and even when he was barely conscious he wouldn’t stop reaching for you. I obviously wouldn’t make you sleep in separate rooms, even if we had that kind of space. Now, you come find Dr. Bowers if he’s having any trouble, alright?”

 

She pauses, awkwardly, before adding,

 

“If there’s anything else you’d like to tell us – about… a friend you had that might be in trouble – or beyond helping – you can tell us that, too. I know that it can be hard to see the use in telling if there’s nothing anyone can do, but maybe it’d help you rest a little easier just to let someone know.”

 

Bucky doesn’t answer and won’t meet her eyes as he shakes his head. They must think he and Steve are terrible people. But Mrs. Bowers only sighs and says,

 

“Try to get some sleep, boys.”

 

As Bucky cautiously curls up next to Steve, he wonders how anyone could possibly expect them to sleep after everything that’s happened. He’s not even sure what part of Brooklyn they’re in right now. For years Bucky’s life has been in one building on one tiny corner of New York City, and in the space of a day the entire world looks different. He’s not certain his head will ever stop spinning, but despite everything, he’s unconscious almost before his head hits the pillow.

 

***

 

It takes over a day for the swelling to start to go down in Steve’s face, before his eyes are able to open more than halfway again. He lies in the bed and stares up at the ceiling, never saying a word, not even when Bucky talks to him directly. But talking to Steve is something Bucky does less and less as the day crawls by, because it’s uncomfortable now. Bucky imagines a wall between them – one that he can’t climb over and isn’t even sure if he wants to. No matter how mangled Steve’s face is, Bucky knows his friend, and he knows how to read his silences. Steve is _angry_ ; maddeningly, inconsolably _angry_ , and Bucky has a sinking fear that if he pushes too hard, he’ll find out that all the anger is directed at _him._ Because of _course_ Steve is mad at Bucky for throwing away the evidence, and of course he’s angry at him for taking an entire day to reach him and Lloyd. It’s painfully obvious Bucky is the reason Lloyd is dead, and the reason Steve was hurt, and Bucky doesn’t know what makes him a worse human being: being responsible for someone else’s death, or being more upset that he might lose Steve over it than he is about the death itself.

 

So mostly, Bucky spends the first day away from the school sitting quietly on the corner of the bed, holding Steve’s hand in his with his back carefully turned to Steve and the black mood radiating out of him. After Mrs. Bowers (he still can’t think of her as Helen) pops her head in for the third time to see him in the exact same position, she lets out a sigh and gestures for him to follow her into the kitchen. Steve doesn’t even blink when Bucky gets up and leaves.

 

“You need to give him some time,” Mrs. Bowers says to him quietly, as she sets to work putting the kettle on the stove. “Something very bad happened to him, and to you – at least indirectly – and it takes some time to sort out the mess that makes of your head.”

 

Bucky shakes his head.

 

“I think he hates me,” he says. “I let them down.”

 

Mrs. Bowers glances up at him when he says “them,” but doesn’t push it further.

 

“You didn’t let anyone down,” she says. “You did what you could when you could. Sometimes you can’t stop bad things from happening, James. Learning to move on after that happens is just a part of life.”

 

“I loused up,” Bucky insists. “I could have done better, I know it.”

 

“We all make mistakes,” Mrs. Bowers says, calmly, sounding like she’s had this talk many, many times before. Bucky wonders if she’s ever said it to Dr. Bowers. “ _I’ve_ made mistakes, but you can’t blame yourself for the actions of others. That’s no way to live.”

 

“Did your mistake ever get a person killed?” Bucky asks, bluntly. “Because mine did.”

 

Mrs. Bowers stops in her steps at that and glances at him sharply; the kettle starts to shriek and spit.

 

“James,” she says, carefully. “I know you don’t want the police involved in whatever happened, but _should_ they be?”

 

“They won’t care,” Bucky mutters. “It was just an Indian kid.”

 

“Why would that make any difference?” Mrs. Bowers asks, a hard edge creeping into her voice. “I won’t have talk like that in this home, James. No one is ever ‘just’ anything here.”

 

Bucky smiles a little at the admonishment. Like so many things, she makes him absently wonder what happened to his mother. Bucky doesn’t remember much about her before she stopped getting up in the mornings, but he likes to pretend that when she wasn’t sick, she was a good person who didn’t care about things that couldn’t be helped. Someone like Steve.

 

“I know that,” he says. “But me and Steve’re basically trash. No one wants us or really cares about us, and we weren’t even supposed to talk to Lloyd – or the black kids, either. I _know_ they didn’t care about us, but they cared about Lloyd even less. The cops won’t be any different.”

 

“The police might care a little more if they knew that this was happening in a place specifically built to _help_ children,” she comments dryly as she takes the water off the heat and pours it into cups. So they’ve figured out where Steve and Bucky ran from, anyhow. Bucky isn’t as surprised by that as he is by how at least the Bowers have no idea how the reform school is run. The milk campaign was literally the only time he saw anyone from the Children’s Bureau inside the school. No one monitors the administration; for some reason everyone accepts that the administration can monitor itself. It seems pointless to explain any of this, though. Mrs. Bowers is radiating enough earnest sincerity to give Steve a run for his money on a good day, so chances are she wouldn’t believe him.

 

“I’m not going to say anything to anyone if it means they might send Steve back there,” Bucky says firmly.

 

“I wouldn’t want you to,” Mrs. Bowers admits as she sets the cup in front of Bucky. “But someone should do something. There must be something that can be done to make sure you boys have someone to stand up for you.”

 

Bucky looks at the water suspiciously, but Mrs. Bowers smiles and calls it silver tea and it doesn’t look like she’s joking, so he sips at it to be polite. They drink quietly for a few minutes, and Bucky absently wonders how hot water can be so comforting. They’re interrupted by sounds coming from the bedroom and Bucky twitches violently in his chair, ready to spring up and run back to see what’s wrong when Steve emerges in the doorway on unsteady feet. His eyes flit rapidly around the room and his body sags in relief when he sees Bucky. Bucky can see the tremors running through Steve’s slight frame even from across a room.

 

“I thought you left,” Steve says, weakly, and the fear in his voice is open and raw.

 

A mean part of Bucky wants to say that he’s not the one who leaves without warning, but then Mrs. Bowers whispers in Bucky’s ear as she leans down to pick up his now empty cup,

 

“He just needs time. Let him feel how he needs to feel and don’t take it personally. He needs _you_ , too.”

 

Bucky doesn’t acknowledge her, but he thinks about what she said, when he gets up and Steve grabs onto his arm like a lifeline, and long afterwards, too.

 

***

 

Steve doesn’t get better as quickly as Bucky would like, but Steve’s never exactly been the picture of health either, so it’s hardly surprising. In all honesty, Bucky’s desire to see Steve back on his feet again isn’t wholly about Steve’s physical wellbeing; it’s because he can’t wait to leave the Bowers’ apartment. 

 

It’s not that he doesn’t like the Bowers, because he really does – likes them in an easy and unquestioning way that he hasn’t felt towards an adult since he can’t remember when. They’re well-meaning and kind, and so happy to give away what they have Bucky would think they’re Bohemians, except he’s pretty sure Steve has said you have to live in a commune to be a Bohemian. All in all, they’re refreshingly safe, but safe doesn’t necessarily mean simple and staying with the Bowers is nerve-wracking.

 

Bucky can tell that they are itching to find out more about Barry’s School for Boys, with a whole squad of police behind them. (On that subject, Bucky’s also fairly confident that real Bohemians aren’t so eager to talk to police officers, either.) So far the only thing that’s deterred Dr. Bowers is when Bucky corners him and flat out pleads with him for over an hour not to tell the authorities about them. Dr. Bowers finally looks at Bucky tiredly and says,

 

“I just want to make sure this doesn’t happen again, James. Don’t you want that? What about the boy you knew who died? Don’t you want to make sure that can’t happen again?”

 

“If you stop them without bringing us into it, I might kiss you,” Bucky deadpans.

 

After Dr. Bowers lets out a frustrated noise, he quietly adds,

 

“I know more kids might die if no one ever finds out about what happened – I’m not stupid. But I know where kids go when they’re a nuisance, too. If Steve and I say anything, it’s going to make us _big_ nuisances. We’ll be causing problems and extra work for a whole lot of people. I’ve already spent years scared that Steve is going to die on me – you’ve seen how small and sickly he is. He’s always been like that. It would be hard enough for him if he had a mom and dad – how good do you think his odds would be if they put him in a place like Barry’s reform school? Even for a week?”

 

Dr. Bowers stops talking about bringing the boys to the police after that, but he never stops talking to Mrs. Bowers about different ideas to stop the school. Bucky just wants him to knock it off, because Steve isn’t doing too great, and the last thing he needs when he’s feeling so down is to be reminded of the place that did this to him in the first place. Even worse, Bucky’s afraid that sooner or later Steve will be back to his old self again and start agreeing with Dr. Bowers.

 

When Bucky’s not worried about Steve and his ideals waking up in the company of the Bowers, he has to admit that he’s also worried about what will happen to the Bowers themselves if they stay. They never say a word about it, but it doesn’t take a Rhodes Scholar to figure out that these are two people who don’t have much to spare. Bucky can remember a time when he was convinced owning a phone was the ultimate sign of wealth and prosperity, but after a week of staying with the Bowers, Bucky cringes each time he hears it ring.

 

Dr. Bowers is forever being called upon to make house calls by desperate people who can’t afford to pay him. He never says no, but Bucky can see the pinched look on his face every time he sees the inside of the ice box or a pantry cupboard. They have so little, and then Steve and Bucky come along, leeching out of the back pocket of two people with nothing to spare. Mrs. Bowers waves him off whenever he hesitatingly brings up the idea of payment or working off what he owes.

 

“Joseph and I make do with our little system,” she says. “You pay what you can, and then help us help someone else once you have your feet back under you.”

 

Steve is just as skeptical when Bucky relays the conversation to him and says,

 

“That sounds nice and all, but you can’t pay the rent with good intentions.” He leans back against his pillow. “We can’t keep staying here, Buck. It’s not right.”

 

“Where do we go?” Bucky asks, trying not to sound as lost as he feels.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve says, bleakly, before laughing a little and Christ, Bucky is starting to hate the sound of Steve’s laugh. He never thought that would happen before all of this. “I never planned this part. I never thought we’d make it this far. It all seemed unimportant.”

 

“Right,” Bucky says, a little timidly but still unable to resist. “Just unimportant things like food and money and a roof over our heads?”

 

Steve gives him a tired little smile.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Stupid things like that.”

 

It’s the first time Bucky’s seen him smile and mean it since he first tried to run. It doesn’t change a single thing, but somehow nothing seems quite as hopeless once Bucky’s seen it.

 

***

 

They don’t see a practical demonstration of the Bowers’ “little system” in full force until about two and a half weeks after Dr. Bowers brings them home. Steve still isn’t saying much, although now that he’s awake most of the time and moving around more, he gets antsy if Bucky is out of sight. He’s also latched onto Mrs. Bowers, who is likely the only adult Steve’s ever met to _encourage_ his artistic side.

 

Steve has gotten into trouble for daydreaming and drawing instead of paying attention in class for as long as Bucky has known him, but he’s never met anyone other than Bucky who treats it like it’s a good thing, or tried to teach him any basic rules. He’s only barely been convinced to set down a pencil to eat since the first time he ventured out of the bedroom. Bucky likes how it seems to relax him most of the time, but sometimes when Bucky looks over at his work, the page will almost be black, covered in angry jagged lines and a lonely figure huddled deep in the shadows. It’s all the more alarming since Bucky is never sure who the lonely figures are supposed to be, and he _knows_ they’re supposed to represent _someone_ , even if Steve will only ever shrug and say,

 

“It’s just to practice shading.”

 

He rarely looks Bucky in the eye when he answers – he rarely looks anyone in the eye these days. Bucky never thought it would be possible to miss someone when they’re sitting right next to you, but it feels like Steve’s been gone ever since he caught Bucky heading to Mr. Douglas’s office. The quiet would be so much easier to take if Steve would just look at him every now and then. Steve’s always been the thing that keeps him grounded, now when he looks at him it only feels like falling.

 

Steve is drawing at the kitchen table the night Dr. Bowers comes triumphantly into the apartment, Bucky sitting beside him, trying not to complain about being bored off his rocker. The grin on Dr. Bowers’ face grows when he sees them sitting together.

 

“Perfect!” He says, brightly. “I need to talk to you boys.”

 

“It wasn’t me,” Bucky says immediately. It gets him a puzzled look from Dr. Bowers, and an exasperated sigh and light smack on the elbow from Steve, which is what he’d been hoping for.

 

“I was speaking to an old patient today,” Dr. Bowers says, wisely opting to ignore Bucky. “I gave him some help free of charge a few years ago, so he likes to stop by every now and then to return the favour – extra food, clothes for people who might need them, that sort of thing. Anyhow, Frank’s been doing wonderfully for himself lately and actually works as landlord for a few tenement buildings. One owner recently agreed to let him sublet a few of the apartments himself as some sort of raise, and one of them is a small apartment whose current occupant is leaving at the end of the week. When he heard you boys had no place to go, he offered to let you stay there – with a reduced rate and weekly payments, besides.”

 

“An apartment?” Steve repeats, looking dazed.

 

“Just a small one,” Dr. Bowers assures. “A combined kitchen and living room, and a small bedroom. With jobs you should just be able to get by.”

 

“We don’t have jobs,” Bucky reminds him. Dr. Bowers slaps his forehead.

 

“I almost forgot,” he says. “Frank also thinks he knows someone who can get James a job.”

 

Bucky may be paranoid, but he can’t help but think that Dr. Bowers is trying to sound more and more like he’s selling something. He narrows his eyes suspiciously.

 

“A job doing what?” He asks, and bingo. Dr. Bowers instantly begins to shift from foot to foot, guiltily.

 

“He has a friend who owns a bar. You’re awfully young, but we’re both certain that this old friend can be convinced to hire you to run odd jobs – mostly for the kitchen, and on the condition that you’re not to go inside when the bar’s open. Frank is quite trustworthy, and he says this friend is a good man. He wouldn’t want to see you getting into any trouble – with the clientele or the law.”

 

Bucky is still trying to puzzle this out when Steve, always two steps ahead, asks,

 

“Where’s the bar?”

 

“Quite close to where I found the two of you – in Fulton’s Landing,” Dr. Bowers says, like he’s admitting to something. “So is the apartment, to be honest. I’m not saying this will be easy, especially at the start before Steve is able to help much with the rent, but it’s better than nothing.”

 

Something clicks in Bucky’s mind, finally.

 

“There were a lot of… odd-looking people on the streets the night we ran,” he says. “And _you_ thought we were sleeping with men for money. Are you sending me to work at a queer bar?”

 

Dr. Bowers looks a mixture of apologetic and sheepish.

 

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says. “But money is money, and there are a lot of good people who live in that area. I even know a few of the people in Frank’s apartment.”

 

“Why do you know anyone there at all?” Steve asks. “You have a _wife_.”

 

“They’re just people, Steve,” Mrs. Bowers says, coming into the room behind Dr. Bowers and making Steve jump. “They need doctors sometimes, just like everyone else.”

 

She smiles at him.

 

“I also have a brother who lives in Fulton’s Landing – the one who taught me how to draw. He says there are some amazing artists in that corner of Brooklyn.”

 

One look at the hungry expression that suddenly comes over Steve’s face, and any reservations Bucky is trying to summon up at the offer are instantly quelled. Steve wants it, and that’s all Bucky needs to see before he decides that maybe it won’t be so bad in Fulton’s Landing after all.


	4. Century of Sleep, Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General warnings about period-typical racist/sexist/homophobic language. Also, one teeny fix/apology: I went back and tweaked a date in part one, because somehow I'd managed to get Steve's birthdate wrong. It shouldn't make a huge difference overall, so let's just pretend it never happened.
> 
> A couple new things come into play in this chapter. One is violence of a more domestic variety. It's not full-out partner abuse or anything like that, and technically it is more a hot-headed, traumatized kid losing his temper on his best friend, so I didn't put it in the tags. But at the risk of stating the obvious, I didn't want to skip the following PSA: Domestic violence is not cool, guys. Hell, violence towards friends isn't cool, either. I don't care if you are dating/BFFs with Captain America, I don't care if there are other issues at play, I don't care if the person is really sorry after, or even if it was genuinely a one-time thing (as is the case here). If that happens, you don't need to justify kicking that partner's/friend's ass to the curb, and you know who would be the first to support that decision? Captain America, that's who. Ultimately, you do what you need to do to feel safe. You're also not a weak person if you don't give up on that partner/friend. Just... be safe about how you make that decision. And know that you have the right to change your mind later if you decide that's what needs to happen.
> 
> Whew! That was a downer! Despite that rather ominous warning/lecture (sorry!), this chapter really IS a little oasis of happy in the story. It also has sex! Sorry, it's not really smutty at all. (I used to think I could make a career writing romance novels until I tried to write my first sex scene and I just can't take that shit seriously. Sex is _ridiculous_ when you stop and let yourself think about it.) But related to all this, Steve sort ended up being demi/graysexual in this story, although that is not a term or concept that existed in the 1930s. (There were similar concepts, most definitely, but none that were lumped together with the idea of sexual orientation.) This isn't something that can be fully addressed in a period piece, so just keep in mind that emotionally healthy, consenting sex doesn't only happen when people are overcome by lust. Sometimes you just sleep with someone because you are curious, or gosh shucks, you think that person is the bees knees. (Don't worry. No one is going to talk like that here. Although I won't lie, it was tempting.)
> 
> Thanks again for your comments, and as usual, thanks to my beta [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness) for telling me when I lost track and let anatomy start re-arranging itself during that sex scene.

 

 

 

The apartment is small, dark, and stuffy. In addition to the bedroom, there’s a closet of a space for the toilet, and a communal shower at the end of the hall. The bedroom is so tiny there may not be room for two beds, Frank says. (He insists on being called Frank, and won’t even tell them his last name, once he looks at their scandalized faces and realizes it’s the only way he’ll win.)

 

“One of you can sleep out in the living area if you need to.”

 

He goes on to add that the one bed they currently have, donated by yet another one of Dr. Bowers’ patients, should hold two bodies without too much trouble. (He doesn’t say this will only work if you’re pushed up against each other, but it’s fairly obvious.) Bucky is starting to get the idea that in this end of town, people assume everyone swishes at least a little, and that not many care, provided you don’t acknowledge it out loud. The constant hints to stay silent are getting frustrating, because there’s no way to correct anyone when they won’t say what they’re thinking. But eventually Bucky stops worrying about it to focus on how excited Steve is getting over the thought of their own place.

 

“Maybe once we’re both working we can build up a bit of a nest egg,” he tells Bucky happily, opening the empty cupboards for the fifth time. “Move into a bigger place?”

 

“Maybe we should work on getting a table and some chairs first, pal,” Bucky says, dryly. “Bed’s the only stick of furniture in the place.”

 

Steve only rolls his eyes and goes back to putting their things away. It doesn’t take long, even with his injuries: the spare linen and two towels Mrs. Bowers gave them are put into the linen cupboard next to the tiny bathroom; the sparse, mismatched cutlery and dinnerware goes onto the kitchen shelves; the few tins of food Frank scrounged for them go next to that. They don’t even have much in the way of clothes, aside from the few Dr. Bowers managed to get from Goodwill, and yet another old patient. Bucky tries to focus on how nice people are being, instead of how it’ll take a miracle for them to last the week.

 

It’s still early yet, but Bucky can’t justify watching Steve putter around the place any longer, not when it’s the first day of his new job. He doesn’t want to give anyone a reason to get mad at him so early on. Walking down the street by himself is a new kind of terrifying for Bucky. He’s tense all over each time someone walks past him, and can’t find the courage do more than glance up from Frank’s directions, just in case someone catches his eye and recognizes him. He’s convinced Mr. Atherton is lying in wait behind every corner.

 

But apparently Mr. Atherton isn’t looking for them in this part of Brooklyn, or he’s satisfied knowing Steve and Bucky didn’t take any paperwork with them, or he just has better things to worry about. Bucky gets to the bar unscathed and when he knocks loudly on the back door, a gruff looking man with an apron appears. He narrows his eyes at Bucky and stares silently for a moment before he says, “you the new grunt?”

 

“Yes?” Bucky says hesitantly.

 

“You’re late,” says the man. “Do you not know your way around Brooklyn, or something?”  


“I’m a fast learner,” Bucky says. The man just sighs loudly and mutters something about “bleeding hearts” before he stands off to the side and waves at Bucky to come in. When Bucky hesitates he looks even more unimpressed and asks,

 

“Frank give you the speech about never coming in the place? I got news for you kid – they don’t arrest the cooks unless the food is terrible. Don’t wander out of the kitchens and you’ll be fine.”

 

Bucky spends surprisingly little time in the bar itself anyhow. He spends most of his time running from place to place, looking for good deals on produce and meat, running tablecloths to and from the cleaners, and getting lost repeatedly. He buys everything on credit, since obviously no one is stupid enough to trust him with money yet, but even just trying to track down enough tomatoes from a pre-approved list of grocers is more responsibility than Bucky is expecting to be given. It takes more time than he ever would have imagined, finding all that food, and Bucky is starting to understand why none of the cooks at Barry’s School stuck around for too long, especially if the administration kept taking their food money to buy new suits and watches.

 

Oscar, the angry cook, keeps yelling at him for stopping to kiss babies instead of getting his job done. Bucky’s pretty sure that means he needs to be faster, and he’s worried that if he takes any longer he’ll be out of his brand new job before the day is out. But once Bucky stops panicking long enough to pay attention, he realizes that Oscar seems to yell at everyone like that. He even yells at the owner at the end of the day, when he comes in to meet Bucky and get him his pay from the back.

 

“Hey boss, if I bat my eyes real pretty, will you pay me today, too?”

 

“Afternoon, Oscar,” Mr. Lucas says, rolling his eyes, like this is a standard greeting.

 

Glancing at Bucky he just says,

 

“Well, you didn’t steal anything today. Between that and the word of Frank and that doctor, I guess it won’t hurt to pay you the first couple days. Don’t expect me to make a habit of it – you’ll get paid on pay day, same as everyone else. But we all start out on our own sometime, and you’re certainly younger than most. I don’t mind helping a little to keep a kid your age off the street.”

 

“He says that because too many street walkers out front leads to raids,” Oscar says, helpfully from where he’s watching.

 

Bucky is clutching his pay in his hand a few minutes later, at a bit of a loss as to what he should do with it. There’s a hole in his pocket and he can’t afford to lose anything. He’s still clutching it awkwardly as he heads to the kitchen door when he hears another put-upon sigh and a hand reaches out to grab his shoulder.

 

“It’s like you _want_ someone to rob you,” Oscar says, waving a handkerchief in Bucky’s face. “Wrap it up in that and put it in your shoe.”

 

“Thank you,” Bucky manages.

 

“Don’t you make me regret it,” Oscar says, menacingly.

 

***

 

The apartment is dark when Bucky gets home, and for a second he thinks Steve must be sleeping, but when he carefully turns on the single lamp in the bedroom, it doesn’t take long to sort out that the place is empty.

 

The worst of it is, there isn’t really anywhere he can check. There’s no furniture to hide behind, there are only two rooms, and there isn’t even room to close the bathroom door if there’s someone standing at the sink. Bucky has checked the showers at the end of the hall twice and when Steve still hasn’t magically appeared, he thinks he might scream. It’s seems so irrational to panic so quickly, but all Bucky can think is that the school isn’t looking hard for him because the only one they want to hurt is Steve. He’s headed for the showers one final time before he starts pounding on all the doors, when the door to his left opens and a man pokes his head out. He’s slight and beginning to go bald, and he seems to hold his weight strangely, like he balances on the wrong parts of his feet.

 

“Hello!” He says cheerfully. “You wouldn’t be James would you?”

 

Bucky stares at him and doesn’t say anything.

 

“Ah,” the man says, faltering and somewhat awkward. “It’s only that Steven asked me to keep an eye out for you.”

 

The man gestures behind him.

 

“He insisted on giving a hand, but he thought you might be worried.”

 

“Steve’s in there?” Bucky says, not caring about how rude he sounds, just desperate for the confirmation.

 

“He is!” The man grins. “I popped my head in to say hello to the new neighbours about an hour ago and we got to chatting. One thing led to another and before I knew it, I was inviting the two of you over for dinner.”

 

“Oh,” Bucky says. “Well.”

 

Everyone outside of reform school has been the strangest mixture of abnormal and kind, and for the life of him, Bucky can’t sort out why. Whatever happened to all those disinterested New Yorkers? A sneaking suspicion at the back of his head tells him Dr. Bowers has some sort of network running through the poorer districts of Brooklyn. It shouldn’t be a surprise; the man seems to know everybody.

 

Bucky stands there stupidly, not saying anything else. Each person he meets seems to get stranger than the last, and it’s been such an odd day, he doesn’t have the energy to even try to deal with people graciously anymore.

 

The man is faltering again, but after a few beats of silence gives up on waiting for Bucky to get his act together before he introduces himself as Rich and ushers him inside. This place is still small, but significantly bigger than the hole Steve and Bucky are staying in, with a separated kitchen and living room, and a bigger bathroom. There’s still only one bedroom, and Bucky quirks an eyebrow when he’s led into the kitchen where Steve is chopping up vegetables and chatting with another man.

 

“This is my roommate, Cal,” Rich says.

 

Roommate. Of course. Bucky is starting to understand why Frank keeps hinting that he and Steve are breaking the law behind closed doors, since it really does seem to be normal here. Rich and Cal, however, are not normal. At least not to Bucky. They’re unlike anyone he’s ever met before, exuberant and friendly with an almost reckless determination to get the most out of life.

 

“We try to live like the Romans,” Rich explains. “Not that we go out and feed Christians to the cat or have orgies on the weekend or anything.”

 

He pauses, briefly, momentarily derailed, like it’s only now occurred to him that they should be scheduling in some orgies.

 

“How are you Roman?” Steve prompts, smiling a little. Bucky has to admit he’s a little impressed at how Steve is handling their antics. He’s still closed off and reserved, especially for Steve, but he genuinely seems to enjoy their new neighbours. If he was at all uncomfortable by what they clearly are to each other, he’s long since gotten over it. Bucky’s saving grace for most of the day around his new co-workers (some of whom are obviously and enthusiastically queer) is that whenever anyone started to make him nervous, he was able to run away under the guise of another errand. He’s pretty sure he likes most of the people he’s met, it’s just such a strange way to live. But then, Steve has always been pretty vocal about leaving people be unless they’re hurting someone else, so it shouldn’t be surprising how he doesn’t so much as blink at anything Cal and Rich are telling them.

 

“Well, you know what they say about Romans,” Cal says, which makes Rich stifle a laugh for some reason. (Bucky bets he can guess.) “We could hide who we are and the things that we want, but what would be the point of that? Those moments when you’re not honest with yourself are the moments you’ll regret when your number’s up: ‘Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow we die.’ Sounds like a plan to me.”

 

Bucky enjoys visiting with Cal and Rich over supper, but he doesn’t necessarily want to spend much time around them after. In all honesty, he’s getting tired of people helping him when he has nothing to offer in return. But before long it becomes apparent that Cal and Rich aren’t prepared to invest anything into the friendship that isn’t met with equal effort. At the end of their first meal together, Cal happily tells them that it will be Steve and Bucky’s turn to bring the ingredients next time. Rich, another artist, who actually taught in a real-life art school in Poland, tells Steve he’ll give him some lessons, if Steve helps him modify a few dresses for him.

 

Bucky stares at Steve incredulously when he hears about that.

 

“Is he a tailor?” He tries, casting about for an explanation that makes sense.

 

“No,” Steve says, shaking his head, eyes wide, like he can’t quite believe it either. “They’re for him. He wears them.”

 

“Why?” Bucky finally manages. “He’s… he’s not a whore, is he?”

 

Steve shrugs.

 

“No. He just likes it, I guess,” he says. “He says a lot of ‘three-letter men’ used to do it, before the stock market crashed and the Europeans started fighting with each other.”

 

“What’s a three-letter man?” Bucky asks. Even when he’s not talking to them directly, Cal and Rich somehow manage to make him feel like he’s been living in a monastery with no contact to the outside world.

 

“I think it means fag,” Steve admits, frowning a little, because he hates that word. “Three-letter man makes it sound pretty classy though, doesn’t it?”

 

***

 

Even once he’s sorted out that he doesn’t care about what they are, Bucky is never exactly pleased by how much time Steve spends with Cal and Rich. It’s just that Steve still doesn’t really talk to Bucky, not about important things. He’ll talk Bucky’s ear off about how much they need to save up to buy a radio, but whenever his mood turns surly and despondent, he just looks at Bucky tiredly before eventually giving in and trudging down the hall, alone.

 

If Bucky’s being honest, he’s too scared to ask what Steve’s thinking, anyhow. Maybe he feels safer when their conversations don’t get more intense than how hard they laugh when Bucky apologises for accidentally calling Steve a sodomite the day Oscar finally tells him what “punk” means. Bucky hates the distance, but the things that might come up if they get closer is absolutely terrifying. So they keep things the way they are, and Steve’ll sit and stew and stare angrily at nothing for long moments, like he’s still so mad about everything it shuts down all the other parts of his brain. Then he leaves (he’s always leaving Bucky behind – always walking away), only to come back hours later with red eyes, like he’s been crying.

 

But by the time Steve’s birthday rolls around, Steve has started finding odd jobs here and there and is out a lot more then he used to be. Bucky thinks it will help with the mood in the apartment, but instead it’s just when the fighting starts. It’s not long before Bucky finds his jealousy forgotten, and he begins encouraging Steve to go talk to _anyone_ , even if it’s not him.

 

It’s not surprising that Steve starts throwing himself into fights he can’t win. After all, that’s been Steve’s style for as long as Bucky has known him, but it’s different since what happened to Lloyd. Now Steve doesn’t stop injustices as he finds them so much as he tries to seek them out, like he’s trying to make up for something. Bucky has seen him goad men three times his size into making disparaging comments about the hookers on the street corner just so he can take a swing at them. It gets bad enough that the nicer gay boys start gently shooing him away when he’s in the area, because watching Steve get his teeth kicked in by hypocritical buyers isn’t their idea of a fun time. It figures even the prostitutes have a soft spot for Steve, who smiles and looks them in the eye, and asks after their families. Once one of them even stops Bucky in the street and tells him to “take better care of that kid.”

 

It’s an odd sensation, realizing that you’re a disappointment not only to yourself but to the gunsels that lurk in the shadows of your neighbourhood as well. But no matter how hard Bucky tries, he can’t make Steve see reason, and he can’t make Steve stop fighting. It gets worse the closer they get to the one year marker from when they ran. Beyond a few days ago, when he dragged Bucky down to the local pawn shop to point out a kitchen table and chairs that are miraculously almost affordable and will fit into their home, Steve hasn’t said two words to him. He just marches down the stairs and out the door, looking for people to hit. It eats and eats away at him until finally Bucky can’t take seeing Steve gearing up to go look for a fight one more time, and he finally takes his courage in both hands to snap,

 

“Lloyd’s not coming back, Steve. You can’t change the past, no matter how many noses you break.”

 

Steve’s only response to that is to almost break _Bucky’s_ nose before storming out of the apartment to god knows where. Bucky sits heavily on the floor of their empty apartment, trying not to feel sorry for himself. He’s still sitting there when there’s a knock on the door and Cal walks in. Bucky doesn’t have the heart to stand up and be polite, even though his body tenses up, because he doesn’t want anyone to see him this way.

 

Cal isn’t put off by Bucky’s unenthusiastic reception and slowly lowers himself to the floor so he’s sitting beside him.

 

“You know some of that fight got pretty loud,” he comments, conversationally. “Put us right off our dinner.”

 

“Do you have Steve?” Bucky finally asks, because even after something like this, his first instinct is to make sure his friend is safe.

 

“Rich is with him,” Cal assures, “but I’m not interested in Steve right now. Are you okay?”

 

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Cal sighs.

 

“I’m worried about you, James,” he says. “You and Steve are still so young yet, and it’s like neither of you ever got the chance to be kids, like you just came into the world as adults. But I also know enough about life to know that adults who walk around with the world on their shoulders like you do aren’t born; they’re made. Steve isn’t willing to get into much detail about where you boys came from, but he’s told me enough that I worry a little about you being alone in this apartment in all your spare time. If you don’t want to spend time with Rich and me, that’s okay, but I think you need to talk to someone so you don’t get too lost in your head.”

 

“I have Steve,” Bucky murmurs. “I talk to Steve.” He determinedly ignores the irony that he is saying he doesn’t need to talk to anyone, when it’s all he ever wants Steve to do.

 

“Look, kid,” Cal says, a little exasperated, like he’s not used to talking to a brick wall. “These kinds of fights between the two of you are only going to get worse if you don’t work through the things that are bothering you. And take it from me, it’s hard to work through problems when you’re two people running from the same thing.”

 

“I don’t know why he doesn’t talk about what happened,” Bucky finally admits, his eyes burning a little. “I know it’s just about all he thinks about. It’s almost all I think about, and Steve knew him better than I did.”

 

“Sometimes the things that want to be said the most are the hardest things to say,” Cal says.

 

“What do you do if the person you love hates you?” Bucky suddenly asks, eyes widening at the words that are coming unbidden from his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say it like _that._ God only knows what Cal thinks about him and Steve now.

 

“I promise Steve does not hate you,” Cal says, firmly.

 

“He needed my help,” Bucky insists. “The one time he needed me to come through for him and I screwed it up. I’d hate me.”

 

“You didn’t let anyone down,” Cal says. “And Steve does not blame you for anything. From what I’ve heard both you boys say, you’re both too busy blaming yourselves to get angry at anyone else. So far as I’m concerned, it seems like a waste of some perfectly good hate. There are people you could be pointing it at who deserve it much more.”

 

“Hating ourselves gets results,” Bucky smirks. “Won’t see any change if we hate the people who did it. They’re going to get away with it.”

 

“Maybe,” Cal says. “Or maybe not. You can’t predict the future, James. You can change it though, if you work hard enough.”

 

Bucky is finally starting to understand why his nosey neighbours are so great to talk to when the front door opens and Steve sneaks in. He takes one look at the bruising around Bucky’s eyes and his face crumples a little.

 

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” he says quietly, dropping to his knees in front of Bucky to lightly touch at the swelling. “I never, ever thought I would do something like that to you.”

 

“I shouldn’t have brought him up,” Bucky says, but Steve only shakes his head. Behind them the door closes softly as Cal makes an escape.

 

“No,” Steve says. “You don’t get to make this your fault, okay? This is all on me. I just… I can’t think about him without seeing it happening all over again. Sometimes it gets so bad I can’t remember what he looked like beyond those last few minutes. It scares me and I just… but that’s really not an excuse, is it?”

 

“You were all caught up in your head,” Bucky tries again, because he doesn’t like Steve getting this down on himself for any reason. “It wasn’t me you were hitting.”

 

“I don’t think you believe that,” Steve says, blunt as always. “I know you, James Barnes. You always think everything is your fault.”

 

Bucky mutters about pots and kettles, but Steve just makes a judgemental, mother hen noise and continues.

 

“If I start making a habit of hitting people who don’t deserve it, I’m no better than them,” he insists. “And I _will_ be a better man, if I’m not, they’ve won. I punch the bad guys from here on out, no one else.”

 

“You know, sometimes you talk and all I can hear is ‘The Star Spangled Banner,’” Bucky says, shaking his head and smiling. “They should take out the eagle and stick your ugly mug on the Great Seal instead.”

 

“You’re such a jerk sometimes,” Steve chuckles, and Bucky wants to cry a little, because he misses this side of them so much.

 

“Punk,” he whispers before pulling Steve into a hug.

 

When they go to pick up the table and chairs from the pawn shop the next morning, Bucky has to fight the urge to hold Steve’s hand as they walk down the street. He thinks about what he said to Cal about being in love and realizes maybe he’s an idiot. Maybe that wasn’t a slip of the tongue, after all.

               

***

 

Bucky’s really starting to get the hang of unexpected subject changes, he realizes. He’s not too concerned though, because it seems to be an easier way of convincing the words to leave his mouth, like he’s catching himself off guard, too.

 

“How do you stop having inappropriate thoughts about someone you shouldn’t be having inappropriate thoughts about?”

 

Dr. Bowers drops the jar of cotton swabs he was trying to put away and turns to stare at Bucky a little incredulously.

 

“I’m asking for a friend?” Bucky tries.

 

“For a friend or about a friend?” Dr. Bowers asks before wincing a little, like he hadn’t meant to be quite so blunt.

 

“Umm…”

 

Dr. Bowers just sits down and stares at Bucky like he has all the time in the world, which Bucky knows isn’t true. Dr. Bowers is almost never in the office when Steve and Bucky stop by to visit these days, and based on how he refuses to tell them where he’s been going, and occasionally ends up with random kids with hunted expressions in his house, it’s pretty obvious he’s spending most of his free time poking around Barry’s School for Boys.

 

Part of Bucky is grateful that Dr. Bowers is so committed to putting a stop to his old teachers, and part of Bucky doesn’t want to know anything about it. It’s been well over a year now since Steve and Bucky got away, and the good days are the ones when he successfully avoids thinking about it. He doesn’t want any progress reports from Dr. Bowers, who, to be fair, doesn’t seem inclined to give any. Bucky almost wants to ask now, though, because the look Dr. Bowers is giving him makes him want to die of embarrassment. Frankly he would welcome the distraction.

 

“What does ‘inappropriate’ mean, exactly?” Dr. Bowers asks.

 

Bucky shrugs and stares at his hands as he feels his face heat up.

 

“Dunno,” he says. “Just inappropriate. Like kissing them and taking them nice places for dinner and teaching them to dance so you have an excuse to hold them and stuff. I’m assuming.”

 

Dr. Bowers makes a strangled noise in the back of this throat.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky says just a hair too loudly, standing abruptly. “I need to leave. I have a thing I forgot about. With a girl. It was nice seeing you again.”

 

“James,” Dr. Bowers says, voice strained, and Bucky is distinctly aware that he’s being laughed at. He reluctantly turns around. Dr. Bowers’ eyes are bright but he still looks concerned.

 

“Just be careful, alright?” He says. “It sounds like this person you’re asking for needs to talk to somebody, but they need to remember to do that in a safe place, okay?”

 

“Yes sir,” Bucky says, dutifully. Really, he’d say anything at this point if it would help him leave faster. For all people keep going on about how it’s important that he ask for help when he has a problem, it’s really not all it’s chalked up to be.

 

***

 

A few weeks later when Bucky gets home from work (late – he’s been doing some extra work hauling crates at the navy yard) Steve is sitting at the table waiting for him, a sombre expression on his face. It takes a second for Steve’s mood to register, because Bucky is always distracted when he comes home these days by how much the place has started to look like it’s theirs.

 

In addition to the table and chairs, Steve’s sketchbooks and pencils litter the room, cluttering the old couch that was donated to them by one of Mrs. Bowers’ friends. There’s a small radio on the table now, its tinny sound filling the apartment with music and news of what’s happening in Britain and Africa. There are pulp novels everywhere, some more dog-eared than others. (Steve likes to tell Bucky that if he reads _Red Harvest_ one more time the pages will fall out.) Almost a week ago they got a second bed, which is visible from the entryway now, if you look over into the bedroom. For once, “home” is a word that means more to Bucky than just “Steve.” It’s a shockingly wonderful feeling.

 

He shakes himself out of it quickly and sets aside the warm glow to go sit down next to Steve, who is looking grimmer than ever.

 

“What’s wrong?” He asks. “Did Cal’s number come up?”

 

“No,” Steve says, softly. “We need to talk.”

 

Bucky waits patiently as Steve obviously tries to gather his thoughts. He seems to give up after a few minutes though, and instead blurts out,

 

“Bucky are we queer?”

 

Bucky literally chokes on the air.

 

“What?” He manages. “Why is that even a question you’re asking?”

 

“Because I don’t think I know the answer,” Steve says, helplessly. “I mean, I know everyone thinks we are, but most of the time I just guess it’s only because of where we live.”

 

“I call you punk a lot,” Bucky adds, unable to keep the grin off his face, even though he feels like the world just shifted underneath him. “That probably doesn’t help, either.”

 

“At least you don’t laugh every time you say it anymore,” Steve says, dryly. Bucky snickers. It really _is_ funny.

 

“But I’m serious, Bucky,” Steve says, once Bucky’s stopped. “What are we?”

 

“I still don’t understand why you’re asking,” Bucky says, helplessly. “We’re us, Steve. That’s all. Same as always.”

 

“Yes,” Steve says, emphatically, like Bucky’s just made a compelling point. “Exactly.”

 

“Exactly what?” Bucky asks.

 

“The way I feel about you is the way I’ve always felt about you – nothing’s changed. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel exactly this way about you but…”

 

“But…” Bucky prompts.

 

Steve sits quietly, like he’s wrestling some dark personal demon for a moment before he finally says,

 

“Muriel Baker.”

 

“What about her?” Bucky asks.

 

“You’ve taken her dancing twice in the last week and a half and I just, I thought I wouldn’t mind? But I think I do. Why do I mind, Bucky?”

 

“Steve,” Bucky says, cautiously balancing between complete mortification and pinching himself to see if he’s imagining this entire conversation (again). “Are you jealous?”

 

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “Maybe? I saw you kissing her outside her apartment the other day and…”

 

Steve trails off, looking almost wistful.

 

“I have to be honest, Steve,” Bucky finally says. “I didn’t think you cared about any of it.”

 

“Of course I care,” Steve says, quietly, looking at his hands. “I don’t… I don’t think I know what I want, but, I don’t want to share you, either.”

 

“There’s not a lot about this that doesn’t sound queer, Steve,” Bucky says, after another long pause.

 

“But I don’t think I want…” Steve stops then starts again. “I don’t think about you and get excited that way or anything. I don’t really think about having sex with you, beyond wondering in passing what it would be like.”

 

Oh God. Bucky’s face feels like it is on fire, and he wonders if Steve would notice if he made a break for the door and hid until the conversation is over.

 

“You sort of have to want to have sex with a guy to be queer, don’t you?” Steve asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Bucky manages. “Do you have to want sex with a pretty girl to be normal?”

 

“I never said you were pretty, Bucky,” Steve smirks. Bucky hides his face in his hands before a thought hits him.

 

“Wait a minute,” he says. “This isn’t about something stupid, is it? It’s not like you’ve just decided you miss sleeping in the same bed as me and think that might make you queer, is it?”

 

“No,” Steve says defensively. “But since we’re talking about the bed, don’t you think it’s odd that we got a table, chairs, a couch, _and_ a radio before we thought to get a second bed? Is _that_ normal?”

 

“That’s… a good point,” Bucky says.

 

“Mrs. Bowers accidently told me what you asked Dr. Bowers a couple months ago,” Steve says, and suddenly this conversation is making a lot more sense. Bucky feels his face get even redder. “Are you not happy with the way we are?”

 

Bucky shrugs.

 

“I’m not unhappy,” he says. “Are you?”

 

“No,” Steve says, his face a portrait of sincerity. “But it feels like it’s getting harder and harder to just keep going the way we are, without deciding what we are. I think there are going to be a lot of Muriel Bakers if we just pretend we’re only friends.”

 

“So what do you want from me, if you don’t want sex?” Bucky asks.

 

“I never said I didn’t want it,” Steve corrects. “I said I didn’t know.”

 

Bucky is pretty sure Steve is just being contrary at this point, so he rolls his eyes and says,

 

“Well Steve, what do you _know_ you want?”

 

Steve cautiously reaches out and grabs Bucky’s hand in his. It’s not an unfamiliar gesture – he and Steve never really outgrew how tactile they are around each other, but it feels like it means more right now, in the context of this conversation.

 

“Can I kiss you?” Steve is so quiet Bucky has to strain to hear him over the radio, but he’s still radiating hope and the unquenchable determination that Bucky associates so strongly with everything Steve.

 

“Steve Rogers, you are out of your mind,” Bucky says, but he uses the grip he has on Steve’s hand to pull him closer.

 

It’s awkward. Neither one of them knows what to do with their hands, and it’s pretty apparent that Steve has never done this with anyone before. He holds his body tense like he’s leaning into a gale wind; Bucky grins into the kiss.

 

There’s a beat of silence when they pull away slightly, like neither one of them knows what to do next, then Steve darts forward for another quick kiss and says,

 

“But since you mentioned it, do you think we could push the beds together? I forgot how cold it gets, sleeping without someone beside you.”

 

Bucky just throws back his head and laughs.

 

***

 

There must be something to what Steve said about the two of them having always loved each other this way, because nothing really changes between them for a long time, besides the kissing when no one’s watching. Part of it is nerves, and Bucky can admit that, but he’s always been a little bit off when it comes to Steve and how he thinks Steve needs to be looked after. It’s only gotten worse over the months since they admitted what they were.

 

He loves sleeping next to Steve every night, being able to kiss him, and hug him, and read with Steve curled up against him on the couch. He wouldn’t trade any of that for anything, but when he thinks about anything in terms of sex or making love, it gets different. It’s not that he doesn’t know what to do – he’s walked past so many embarrassing moments on the way home from work he knows what needs to happen just fine – but the thought of touching Steve in that way makes his stomach hurt. It makes him think of Mr. Douglas and the way he reached into Bucky’s pants and how fucking scared he’d been and how small he’d felt. It’s not something that he relives that often, to be honest, but when he thinks about Steve he can’t help it, because no one came to Steve’s rescue like Steve came to his. No one stopped it from happening to Steve and how can something like sex ever feel good again after something like that?

 

At the back of his head the rational side of him comments that what Steve does is going to be Steve’s decision, not his. And Steve certainly acts like he’s agreeable to moving further whenever he notices Bucky squirming after he comes back from the shower in nothing but a robe and towel, or when he catches Bucky thinking improper thoughts (Steve can always tell). He’ll gamely hop up on the bed and try to convince Bucky to take things further, but he’s always so matter-of-fact about it, that it makes Bucky flustered, like this must be a sign of something bad that he can’t see. He has yet to take Steve up on the offer, opting for stubbornly silent panic instead.

 

“Bucky, it’s okay,” Steve says, each time Bucky slips out of bed in the morning, stammering apologies and just wishing his erection would go away for good. “It’s normal.”

 

“You don’t do it,” Bucky finally accuses, tired of Steve’s patience, which only makes him feel more irrational.

 

“Yes, I do,” Steve shrugs. “It just goes away faster. What are you so afraid of?”

 

“Not afraid,” Bucky insists, refusing to look Steve in the eye as he puts on his pants. He’s been working at the docks almost exclusively lately, only helping at the bar on the weekends. Suddenly there’s so much work waiting for him there. He can’t afford to be late, for their rent money to go to some other sap because he stayed at the apartment to talk about his feelings with Steve.

 

He’s so desperate to leave he almost misses the quiet,

 

“Do you not want to do this anymore?”

 

He should stay – he knows he should. But he panics and leaves anyhow, acting like nothing just happened.

 

***

 

He spends the day replaying Steve’s “Do you not want to do this anymore?” in his head as he works, analysing the uncertainty and insecurity there, and cussing himself out for being such a jerk. He’s in such a state by the time he gets back to the apartment that he doesn’t even stop to say hello.

 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“What?” Steve says, staring at him blankly from where he’s pulling out the few bits and pieces they have around the kitchen to make soup.

 

“It’ll hurt, right?” Bucky says, uncertainly. “The guys at the bar always joke that it hurts. I don’t want to do that to you, not after what happened before. I just… I don’t think I can hurt you, Steve.”

 

“I don’t _want_ you to hurt me,” Steve says. “But I _do_ want to find out what it’s like. Honestly, Bucky, why are you so worked up about this?”

 

“Because I feel like you aren’t worked up _enough_ ,” Bucky says. He feels better once he’s said it out loud, but Steve still looks confused.

 

“Buck,” he says, uncertainly. “You waiting for me to swoon and fall into your arms or something?”

 

“No,” Bucky snorts, dismissively. Then, “Maybe? You’re very… agreeable, but it never feels like it’s your idea.”

 

“I swear to god,” Steve starts, looking downright testy now. “If this is because I’m not thanking you for the opportunity or giggling like a schoolgirl every time I look at your muscles – ”

 

“What? No!” Bucky says. “It’s not about my ego, Steve. I just feel – okay please don’t yell or make me sleep down the hall – but it feels like you’re acting like a dutiful housewife when you only ever get interested after you’ve noticed that I am. I mean, we’re queer. We can’t get married, and we can’t make babies; there’s literally no reason why we should have to have sex if you’re not interested.”

 

Steve is looking at Bucky like he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh at Bucky or strangle him. Finally he turns away and starts to open tins and cut up vegetables. After a moment Bucky starts helping, because why not? They’re over halfway through before Steve finally speaks again.

 

“Don’t call me a housewife, you shit.”

 

Bucky laughs a little in relief before he says,

 

“Sorry. I didn’t quite mean it like that, but I don’t know how else to put it. It’s just – it’s only for fun, so if you don’t want to, don’t worry.”

 

“I _do_ want to,” Steve insists. “But maybe not for fun. Maybe because I don’t know why other people think it _is_ fun.”

 

“It’s not a big deal though – “ Bucky starts before Steve sets down his knife and turns to look straight at him.

 

“Isn’t it?” He says, and for the first time Bucky is able to see how uncertain he looks. “Most of the time, I just don’t think I’m built to care about that sort of thing, which is fine, because my body isn’t cut out for a lot of exertion anyhow, and I’m happy enough just being near you. I’ve never wanted more than that. I’ve never _needed_ more than that. But sometimes I get scared that it’s something else, too. I’m not a virgin, Bucky, and what they did to me wasn’t _fun._ ”

 

“I _knew_ this was about the school,” Bucky says, trying not to sound too triumphant about being right, because now is really not the time.

 

“I’m not sure,” Steve says, sighing a little as he turns fully to lean against the counter. “I mean, if none of that stuff had ever happened and I felt this way, I’m pretty sure I’d still want to try, just to see.”

 

Bucky stares at him in disbelief.

 

“I always think I understand you until I don’t understand you,” he finally manages. “You really only want to have sex to test if you can like it?”

 

Steve shrugs.

 

“I want to test to see if I like it with _you_ ,” he says. “I don’t care if I ever want to have it with someone else, but I’m kind of in love with you, Buck. If they’re the reason I don’t care... they don’t deserve having that power. I’m not going to let them take anything else.”

 

“And if you don’t like it?” Bucky asks. “Say we try, and you don’t like it. Would you let me know instead staying quiet about it and pretending? I don’t deserve that power, either.”

 

Steve doesn’t respond, but he gives him that blinding, heart-stopping smile that means Bucky has absolutely said the right thing before he turns back to the counter to finish chopping potatoes.

 

***

 

Before anything else has a chance to get started, Bucky checks his pride and forces himself to visit Rich after work one evening. They chat amicably for several minutes about innocuous things as Bucky helps Rich get the coffee ready, even though they both know this isn’t a social call (Steve is the one who likes making social calls). Bucky is happy to carry on the ruse for as long as he can though, because he still has no idea how to politely explain what he needs.

 

Once they’ve taken a seat, Rich says, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, James?”

 

Bucky knows it’s now  or never, that if he doesn’t speak up, he will never find his nerve, so he takes a deep breath, focuses on how much Steve wants this, and says,

 

“I need to know how to have sex with another man.”

 

Rich blinks, and sips his coffee, a contemplative look on his face, like Bucky just asked his opinion on entering into non-aggression pacts with Germany, instead of asking for an explanation of sodomy.

 

After an extremely long pause, Rich says,

 

“You really do just jump in with both feet, don’t you?”

 

“You asked!” Bucky says, immediately defensive, because he feels like an idiot.

 

“You and Steve really haven’t figured this out?” Rich asks. “In this neighbourhood?”

 

“No, that’s not –“ Bucky breaks off for a moment to collect his thoughts before trying again. “Obviously, we know how it works. But we’ve never done anything before because Steve hasn’t been very interested, and I’m okay what that. Whatever Steve wants, I want. Only now he wants to try, and I know how everything is supposed to go, but I also know sometimes it can be really terrible for the person, um, underneath.”

 

Bucky hesitates again. He told Steve he was going to do this, and Steve had reluctantly said he could elaborate, if he needed to explain why he was so worried, but it still feels like he’s crossing a line that’s not his to cross. When he looks up from his coffee, Rich is looking right at him, patient and a little concerned now.

 

“It’s not Steve’s first time,” Bucky says. “And the first time wasn’t good. I don’t want to hurt him like that.”

 

Understanding dawns on Rich’s face, and he looks sad when he says,

 

“Well most importantly, when you’re both willing and paying attention to each other’s needs, it’s never going to be that terrible. Steve will be fine, James, I promise. But you’re right to think that there are certain things you can do to make both of your experiences better.”

 

He grins at Bucky.

 

“I know how much Steve likes starting fights with people who need to be taken down a peg, so the first thing you need to do is raid your first-aid kit.”

 

***

 

Steve jokes that Bucky can call for a break if he gets too flustered, that Steve can run him through the deep breathing exercises that he uses to stave off asthma attacks. Bucky calls him a punk and tells him to shut up. It’s all very romantic.

 

“Just… please tell me if I’m hurting you?” Bucky finally asks, not quite keeping the tremor out of his voice.

 

Steve leans over from where he’s lying next to Bucky, naked on their pushed together beds and puts a hand on his arm, concerned.

 

“Bucky, we don’t have to do this,” he says. “I want to sort this out, sure, but not if you don’t want it.”

 

“I want it,” Bucky says, leaning into the touch a little. “I sort of wish your body was a little stronger so we could change positions, but I want it. Besides, I was thinking about what you said about not knowing why you’re the way you are. I _know_ they’re the reason I’m scared right now. Rich kept looking at me the way you look at those stray dogs with tin cans tied to their tails when we were talking. It’s been years, Steve. I don’t want the fucked up things that happened to us when we were little control my actions forever.”

 

Steve just sighs at him in slight exasperation before leaning in for a kiss. When they pull apart he asks, business-like,

 

“What do we do first?”

 

Awkwardly Bucky reaches over and grabs the Vaseline.

 

“I’m supposed to stretch you? Rich says that if you spend enough time on this, it doesn’t hurt at all, so long as you can stay relaxed.”

 

“Okay,” Steve says, agreeably, and yet again Bucky thinks it’s weird that Steve is so methodical about this entire endeavour. He certainly seems willing enough, eager even, but his breathing isn’t even picking up yet. Bucky feels a little bit like he’s been running across the Brooklyn Bridge, dodging traffic the whole way. Admittedly, he’s not sure if that’s lust or panic. He stares blankly at the tub in his hand for a minute before he starts at the sound of Steve’s chuckle.

 

“Okay, buddy,” Steve says, leaning forward and taking the Vaseline. “Let’s try something else to start. Watch, okay?”

 

Bucky nods mutely, and Steve carefully coats his index finger in a copious amount of the jelly before shifting onto his side so he can lean forward as he reaches behind himself. He starts squirming a little as he tries to find a good angle. He winces and starts a little a second later, giving a slightly exasperated look when Bucky pulls back a little.

 

“You know, you need to relax for this to work, too,” he comments, but his face still looks uncomfortable.

 

“Is it that bad?” Bucky demands, worriedly.

 

Steve huffs out another laugh.

 

“No,” he says. “But it doesn’t feel all that wonderful? I mean, well… it feels like there’s a finger in my ass.”

 

His face turns contemplative as he muses,

 

“Maybe we should have started with hand jobs, to set the mood or something.”

 

When Bucky doesn’t respond, Steve looks at him in exasperation, and adds,

 

“Or maybe it would help if you just weren’t staring at me like you’re trapped in an episode of _Lights Out_ and the chicken heart just got me. Bucky, this is ridiculous.”

 

It’s hard to be too alarmed with Steve’s gentle mockery turned on him full-force so after a second, he starts to laugh, too. Now that the tension has eased a little, Steve gets a calculating look on his face and pulls his hand back.

 

“Here,” he says, handing the tub back to Bucky. “You try.”

 

“I don’t know, Steve,” Bucky balks. “My fingers are bigger than yours, maybe you should spend a little more time –“

 

“No,” Steve interrupts. “Try on yourself. I bet you stop worrying if you know exactly what it feels like.”

 

Bucky looks at him skeptically for a moment, but when Steve nudges the tub in his direction he rolls his eyes and takes it, coating some of it on his index finger. Once he’s managed to push his finger in, he understands Steve’s wince. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels very, very wrong, not to mention it almost feels like he needs to go to the bathroom, and he looks at Steve in absolute bewilderment.

 

Steve gives him a look that seems to say, “Yeah, I know.”

 

“This doesn’t feel like much of anything at all,” he says. Honestly, he’s a little disappointed.

 

“Maybe it feels better if you’re stretched wider?” Steve suggests.

 

“Why?” Bucky asks, wiggling the finger around a little. “So you can feel _more_ constipated?”

 

“This is why I think we skipped a step,” Steve says. “There’s got to be some piece we’re missing.”

 

“Maybe we’re not, you know, Greek or whatever,” Bucky suggests. “Maybe we’re just confused.”

 

Steve gives him a withering glare.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure that’s the answer.”

 

“Look,” Bucky says, leaning forward slightly. “I’m just trying to sort out why this is – _fuck_.”

 

He breaks off suddenly as his eyes screw shut. There are stars jumping around underneath his eyelids and suddenly it’s like he’s forgotten how to use words.

 

“Bucky?” Steve questions, uncertainly. “What is it?”

 

“Aim,” Bucky manages, right as he hits the spot again, and he tries his hardest not to whimper. “I think a lot of it has to do with your aim.”

 

“Still Greek then?” Steve asks, smirking.

 

“Fuck you, punk,” Bucky grits out, pulling his hand back, because if he lets himself, he has a feeling he could just keep touching that one spot until he completely forgets Steve is in the bed with him.

 

“Exactly,” Steve says, taking Bucky’s hand and guiding it behind him. “And now that you know what I’m getting into, how about we get on with it?”

 

***

 

Steve’s not a good enough actor to hide the fact that he’s scared when they actually get to the part where Bucky’s cock is lined up and ready to push inside, no matter what he says. Rich said it might be easier if Steve was on his hands and knees, but for all the playing around they’ve been doing in the last half hour, Steve is as tense as anything when Bucky goes to push against his prostate with his fingers one last time.

 

“Steve?” He questions.

 

Steve just shakes his head and makes a noise that indicates Bucky needs to get on with it this exact second. But when Bucky leans forward to look at Steve’s face, there’s no getting around the fact that Steve’s nerves are finally catching up with him. Bucky pulls his hands away and pokes Steve in the side until Steve swats his fingers away angrily and looks up to make eye contact.

 

“I know I’ve been the one panicking about this,” Bucky says. “But it’s okay if you want to change your mind, too, remember?”

 

Steve sighs and sits up on his heels, nudging Bucky back a little to give him some space.

 

“I didn’t think it would matter if it was you,” he admits.

 

“But it does?” Bucky says. “It’s okay, Steve.”

 

“Stop saying that,” Steve says, frustrated. “I think it’s just… staring at the wall, you know?”

 

Bucky nods, even though he doesn’t know, but then Steve says, “Do you think we can move around, so I can see you? I don’t think… I think my mind is going to go a little screwy unless I can see you.” And Bucky starts to sort out what the problem is.

 

“It won’t feel as good,” Bucky cautions. “Or so I’m told.”

 

“I don’t mind,” Steve says. “Promise.”

 

Between the more brazen hookers they’ve literally stumbled across, and Rich’s frankly embarrassing coaching session, Bucky knows at least a couple other ways this can work facing one another. Pushing Steve’s legs to his chest frankly sounds terrifying, since Steve looks so frail it’s hard not to imagine his bones are bird-delicate, hollow and just waiting for an excuse to snap. Bucky rolls over onto his back instead, and reaches out to pull Steve on top of him, so he’s straddling Bucky’s waist.

 

“Better?” He asks.

 

Steve considers for a moment before he nods and leans forward to kiss Bucky, hard.

 

“Good,” Bucky says, when Steve finally pulls away. “Don’t you dare go too fast. I’m not kidding, Steve. If you go to the hospital with an asthma attack in this state, we’re going to get arrested.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes, but pats Bucky’s chest fondly all the same.

 

“Nag,” he smiles.

 

They go very, very slowly. Steve’s eyes get comically large once he’s coaxed Bucky’s penis past the tight ring of muscle, and his hands clench around Bucky’s forearms.

 

“Does it hurt?” Bucky demands, refusing to be derailed by how Steve feels clenched around him. His protective response actually doesn’t come to him as naturally as it normally does because, oh God, Steve feels _amazing_. It’s hot and tight and all of Bucky’s instincts scream for more.

 

Steve makes an uncertain face, almost like he’s trying to go for nonchalance but can’t quite make it, and Bucky instantly starts moving to lift Steve away from him.

 

“Don’t you dare,” Steve snaps, reading the situation perfectly. “Bucky, I swear to God.”

 

He’s wearing his infuriatingly determined face again as he visibly forces himself to relax again and sinks down a little further. Bucky groans despite himself.

 

“See?” Steve says, panting a little. “You worry too fast, Buck. You just need a little patience that’s all.”

 

“Sorry, I didn’t realize concern for your well-being was a character flaw,” Bucky manages, before he decides to hell with the sarcastic banter. He’s just going to lie here and force himself to be still as he watches Steve and thinks about how gorgeous he is with his flushed cheeks and his red lips, soft and swollen as he bites them in concentration. If there ever was a time such sappy behaviour was warranted, it’s when he has his cock in Steve’s ass and oh God, this is happening _right now_.

 

Steve has worked about half of Bucky’s length inside of him now, and has paused a little to look at Bucky quizzically. His legs are shaking with exertion and Bucky’s hands automatically slide under his ass to take some of his weight.

 

“You look like you’re having a transcendental experience,” Steve comments.

 

“I knew getting you that library card was a mistake,” Bucky manages, and so much for no more banter (even though it’s all Steve’s fault). “Stop showing off when we’re trying to have sex, Steve.”

 

Steve’s ass hits the back of his thighs a moment later, and there’s a sort of a natural pause in the proceedings as they both get used to the feeling. After a few moments Steve, who is already plenty tight, clenches his muscles around Bucky, slightly, but entirely intentionally. He’s looking closely at Bucky’s face, like he’s preparing for a test drive or something. Bucky is horrified at how attractive it is in their current situation.

 

Steve raises and lowers himself one, two times, his pupils dilating each time until his eyes look black. His cock starts twitching against Bucky’s belly and it’s the most erotic thing Bucky’s ever felt. He’s getting the idea that when they do this, Steve could point out mold on the ceiling and Bucky’s brain would instantly tell him it is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.

 

Bucky’s making a move to wrap his hand around Steve’s penis, because apparently they feel spectacular when they’re all wrapped up in something, and Bucky believes in sharing, but then Steve makes a different sound. Not a happy one; a distressed one, frustrated even. Bucky looks up at him, his good mood going up in smoke. He’s about to start panicking when he sees the problem in their brilliant “Steve on Top” plan.

 

He pulls out, ignoring Steve’s indignant noise of protest and carefully rolls them over so Steve is lying down on the bed, on his back with Bucky cradled between his thighs.

 

“You know if we ever do this again, we should plan it better,” Bucky comments. He can still feel Steve’s legs shaking from overexertion. “Is this okay?”

 

Steve nods impatiently before he chuckles and says,

 

“Believe me, there’s no way to be better prepared for this than you were. You could get a merit badge for this, Buck.”

 

There’s not much talking after that, since Bucky is too busy dying in the best way possible to keep up his end of the smartass comments. Judging by the pleasantly surprised noises Steve is making, Bucky thinks he doesn’t mind too much.

 

He doesn’t last very long before the sparks jumping behind his eyelids start coming in faster and faster and suddenly everything explodes into heat and light and stillness and a steady rush and maybe some sort of classical music for a very quick second? Or it could be that they’re not quiet, and Rich and Cal are turning up the radio to drown them out. It’s frankly all pretty confusing and overwhelming.

 

Once Bucky becomes aware of his surroundings again, he’s on his back next to Steve, who also appears to have finished at some point, although for the life of Bucky he doesn’t know when. The first thing he registers is relief at how calm and happy Steve looks. The second thing is suspicion when he figures out that Steve is laughing. At him.

 

“What?” Bucky demands, defensively, and fighting the urge to cover himself with a sheet, like Steve has somehow sullied his honour.

 

“Nothing, just…” Steve trails off and grins even wider. “You _really_ enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

 

“Didn’t you?” Bucky says, incredulously.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, but pleasantly agreeable. Bucky stares at him, hard.

 

“Okay, okay,” Steve says. “I didn’t want to spoil your moment, but… I have a feeling you got more out of it than I did.”

 

“Did I do something wrong?” Bucky demands, rising up onto his elbows. “Maybe I just need more practise.”

 

“Nice try, pervert,” Steve says. “But, I don’t think it was about anything you did or didn’t do. It felt really good, I swear. But to be honest? The best part was watching you.”

 

Bucky isn’t entirely sure what to do with this information, but Steve looks happier, freer almost, than Bucky can remember in a long time. Whatever his reasons for insisting they go further were, he certainly doesn’t seem distraught.

 

“So you’re still not interested?” Bucky asks.

 

“I’m interested in you,” Steve reiterates, patting Bucky’s chest. “We could do this again. The world is not wrong, it was fun.”

 

“Fun,” Bucky says, epiphany slowly dawning in the post-orgasm haze. “But not inspiring. You don’t want to sit down and write sonnets about it, is that it?”

 

Steve wrinkles his nose.

 

“Do you?” He asks.

 

“Well, I actually think I could have a nap,” Bucky says, getting up to grab a towel and wet down a corner so they can clean up. “But you know what I mean. No hidden urges waking inside of you?”

 

“Hardly,” Steve says.

 

“And nothing bad waking up either, right?” Bucky says as he comes back to the bed.

 

“No,” Steve says, and he looks so damn victorious Bucky just stares for a minute before he shakes his head a little and gets back to the task at hand.

 

Steve winning his battles, even when they’re only in his own mind, is sort of incredible to watch. And maybe they never left Barry’s School for Boys the way Steve wanted, guns blazing, bad people begging for mercy and not finding any, but they’re young yet. Some day in the future, Bucky is going to make it happen for Steve, and for him too, if he’s being absolutely honest. He smiles to himself as he settles back down next to Steve. It’s not quite the poetry he was talking about, but it’ll do.

 

***

 

They don’t have sex very often; it’s just not something they do. When it happens, it’s usually Steve’s idea, and mostly when Bucky’s said or done something that makes Steve smile at him fondly and dopily. Bucky finds he doesn’t feel its lack that badly, no matter how much he likes it – he likes Steve much more than he likes sex, after all. When you come right down to it, there’s not much that can compare to Steve Rogers.

 

When they stick to their own area of the city, they don’t need to worry too much about what people think of them. Not everyone is queer here, far from it, but the nightlife is only really tolerable for the normal tenant if they learn to look the other way. Still, sometimes Bucky arranges double dates with the girls he meets when they show up to flirt with the men working in the navy yard. Steve always rolls his eyes when Bucky tells him they’re going dancing, but he’ll be damned if Mrs. Hansen, that narrow-minded old biddy on the third floor, decides she’s suffered their antics long enough and tries to get them into trouble.

 

The war slowly but insistently encroaches into their world. Steve is pleased by this, because he has any number of choice things to say about Hitler and the way he’s “ruining Europe,” while Bucky mostly wishes that it would stay on the other side of the water. But then Pearl Harbor happens, and the whole world has gone to hell and officially dragged the United States with it. Dr. Bowers is enlisted and sent away to front lines, where they are desperate for doctors, and Brooklyn is a poorer place without him. Either Steve or Bucky make sure to visit Mrs. Bowers at least once a week after, to find out if she’s heard from him, and to offer any moral support she might need.

 

Steve, of course, had already marched straight up to city hall to request a new copy of his birth certificate, and volunteered for the Armed Forces the day he turned 18, just to be ready. Bucky felt guilty over how relieved he was when Steve’s poor health earned him his first 4F. He feels even worse after Pearl Harbor, when he doesn’t try to stop Steve from volunteering multiple times under different names, but only because he knows no one in their right mind would take him.

 

For his part, Bucky does not volunteer, because where the war has driven Steve to new heights of delusion, it seems to have Bucky made especially practical. There is no way Steve will be able to make it a year if Bucky leaves him behind to go fight Nazis. He won’t be able to make rent, he won’t stay healthy enough to work as much as he needs, and he absolutely won’t be able to stay out of trouble. He doesn’t say any of this to Steve, who would never forgive him for any of it, which means he had no room to argue registering for the lottery when the call went out. Most days, he tries to forget it happened, hoping his luck will hold out until the end of the war.

 

It holds for two years after the bombing. Bucky finds the letter waiting for him on the table one day when he gets back from work: “Order to report for induction.” Every second of hard-fought happiness he’s found with Steve starts to shatter and fall to pieces on the floor around him as he reads. “Having submitted yourself to a local board composed of your neighbors for the purpose of determining your availability for training and service in the armed forces of the United States, you are hereby notified that you have been selected for training and service in the Army.”

 

Steve comes in from the other room, grinning at him, but a little teary, like this is the best thing that could have happened, and he’s still heartsick that it couldn’t be him. Bucky smiles back at him a little weakly. All these years his nightmares have been about Steve leaving again, and now the only person going anywhere is him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So that was the first half of the story everyone. Thanks for sticking it out with me! The next half of the story may be slightly confusing so just a heads up: It will jump from Bucky's PoV to Steve's PoV, and it will be set during the events of _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. This needs to happen so I don't have chapters of, like, G.R.R. Martin-esque descriptions of how cold it is as we wait for Steve and Bucky to emerge from their respective hibernations. This way we can skip straight to the good stuff. (Good stuff = hugs and retribution, not necessarily in that order.)
> 
> I'm going to try to keep up with posting a chapter a week if I can, but I honestly don't know if that will work, since I don't know how much editing will be required to force the second half into submission.


	5. Vexed to Nightmare, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, second half! Let's do this!
> 
> I mentioned it at the end of the last part, but to remind you: No more 1940s Bucky PoV. This jumps into CA: TWS territory pretty quickly and we are officially hearing Steve's side of the story now. And building off of that...
> 
> FULL DISCLAIMER: The rest of the story follows the events of CA:TWS fairly closely and includes events from CA:TFA via a few flashbacks. As a result, when reading a scene that is sticking quite close to the original plots, expect call-backs to scenes, dialogue from both movies, and even some direct quotes and paraphrasing. I don't want that to be the main focus of the story, so I haven't drawn attention to it when it happens, but like, just in case you've forgotten how the movies go, I didn't write all of Natasha's masterful Captain America jokes, or all of Sam Wilson's perfect Sam Wilson-ness (I really like Sam Wilson, everyone). 
> 
> Chapter specific warnings include something that might potentially look like partner infidelity but I didn't add a tag for it because it's really not, it's just... complicated and limited PoV so you don't get to see the whole story. Maybe one day if interest is there I'll add include a one-shot with Peggy's PoV. 
> 
> NON-FANDOM SPOILER: If you've never seen _Inglorious Basterds_ , one of the bigger plot twists is mentioned in this chapter. Sorry!
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness), for telling me when Steve starts sounding too much like Henry Aldrich. (It's okay if you don't understand that reference, just know that it's something none of us want to happen.)

 

 

 

Steve Rogers learns to adapt to the 21st Century by keeping lists. The first list keeps track of “the only things” and it is added to every time someone tells him “the only thing he needs” to understand the world today. Tony is the one who gives him the idea, sort of, when he tries to teach Steve about the rules of the internet. Steve’s already been given the basic technology rundown by the star-struck SHIELD techs, and he’s never been afraid to try new things, so he personally thinks he’s doing alright on his own when it comes to the world wide web. He’s even figured what memes are, and that cats are usually involved. Then the battle of New York happens and in the midst of the chaos is a lull of about 24 hours before everyone goes their separate ways. They’re all sprawled in the living room of one of Tony’s undamaged floors when Steve makes a comment about how the current generation has no common sense.

 

“I know, I know,” Steve says, when Tony starts to snicker. “I sound like an old man. But have you ever read what people say online, Tony? I’ve actually read someone compare Harvey Milk to Hitler. I mean… _Hitler_.”

 

“Oh _that_ ,” Tony says, waving a hand dismissively. “The Internet has different rules, that’s all. It’s designed to make you look foolish, and to allow the especially foolish to identify themselves so you know who to never, ever talk to in real life.”

 

“Right,” Steve says, disbelieving. “What magical internet rule exists that could possibly justify comparing a gay Jew to Hitler?”

 

The responding chorus of “Godwin’s Law,” comes from every other person in the room except Thor. Before Steve quite understands what’s happening, Tony has spent over an hour explaining Rules 34, 35, and 63, the Streisand Effect, Munchausen by Internet, and Lewis’s Law, with input from the others. It’s a wonderful, happy little window of time where everyone feels like friends before they go back to being strangers.

 

“Write these down, Steve. Know them; embrace them; love them. They are your key to understanding life in the 21st century.”

 

It’s a long time before Steve feels qualified enough to use the Internet again, even though Bruce tells him the rules aren’t _that_ important. Bruce is also the one who gives Steve the small notebook, and kindly tells him to add “Steve Jobs” to the list so he knows why Tony hisses every time someone mentions Macintosh apples. Other people help him with other additions. Nick Fury is the one to tell him to look into the Berlin Wall, at Steve’s absolute bewilderment at how something like the Cold War could even happen.

 

“Will that help everything make sense?” he asks.

 

“No,” Fury shrugs. “But it’s a story with a nice ending, at least. What else do you need?”

 

On a note that is somehow related, Clint is the one who kindly takes him to the side on one of his rare days between missions and tells him to look into the difference between _Star Trek_ and _Star Wars._

 

“Star Wars is one of the spin offs, right?” Steve asks. “The one with the android?”

 

“Oh Steve,” Clint just says. “Don’t let Natasha hear you say things like that.”

 

“She doesn’t really seem like the sci-fi type,” Steve points out.

 

“She’s the Cold War pop propaganda movie type,” Clint just says, like that even means something.

 

It may start to make a little more sense after he watches her and Hill turn a debriefing into an honest-to-god shouting match over which _Rocky_ movie was better, after _Rocky IV_ which was, according to Natasha “obviously the standout in the series” and maybe even helped save the world. Hill just gets a tired, resigned look, like they’ve had that particular conversation many times in the past and she knows there’s no winning.

 

Steve dutifully adds all of it to his list. He even adds Nirvana after patiently listening to an old man on the bus rant about “the problem with kids today” with their “flannel, and their garage bands, and their bad attitudes.” The teenager next to them had almost hurt himself trying not to laugh when the man finally got to “naked baby Nirvana” and the way he had tried so stay quiet seemed sort of… nice. Hilariously, Steve thinks of it as respectful, and every time he remembers it, it makes him feel like smiling, even though he’s stuck here in a future he never wanted to see without his friends beside him. Without Bucky.

 

Every item in Steve’s “only thing” list is like that: nothing that ever helps him sort out the future, but still, little reminders of moments in time when he doesn’t feel so miserable or alone. Steve goes over that list a lot, even when he isn’t interested in crossing anything off of it. Some days, that one list in a borrowed notebook is the only thing that convinces him he’s going to make it.

 

Steve’s second list is never written down, but he keeps it all the same, and mentally calls it his “Tempest in a Teapot” list. He doesn’t call it a “Do Not Do” list because while there are some things on it he’s not going to repeat, like, “Accuse reporter of being rude for calling homosexuals gay, because just because someone likes older men, it doesn’t mean they don’t deserve respect,” there are other items that he remains stubbornly unrepentant about. No matter how harried the SHIELD PR department has started to look each time he sees them.

 

He refuses to feel sorry for the headaches he gives them the day he finally takes up a famous pastor’s very vocal invitations to go sit in on a service. Steve is Catholic, but that always constant pang of homesickness leads to Steve walking into the foyer on Sunday morning. He supposes he just wants to spend an hour finding any emotional support or quiet reflection he can, from a place that looks at least a little familiar. What he gets is a loud, chaotic “super-church” where the preacher paces and sweats on a big flashy stage, yelling to the congregation about how they are God’s chosen people, and how they can learn to rise above persecution. Even that would be bearable, if anyone there seemed to know what persecution meant, but all the preacher talks about is being oppressed by “the homosexual minority trying to take our religious freedoms” and how today’s woman wants “an abortion clinic on every corner.” It is not what Steve was hoping for, to put it mildly.

 

The problem, Steve learns, with angrily storming out in the middle of a super-church service, is that there are a _lot_ of people to watch you do it. And to tweet videos and vines of you marching to the exit from your seat of honour at the very front of the congregation. It doesn’t take long to go viral, and by mid-afternoon, flocks of reporters are trotting after him while he grocery shops, demanding an explanation.

 

Steve personally thinks he handles it very well: he doesn’t snap; he doesn’t get angry; he says what he has to say exactly once, and then doesn’t engage with anyone about the subject again. SHIELD PR asks if he might think he was just a little harsh. He really doesn’t. Tony sends him flowers wrapped in every newspaper and ridiculous tabloid he headlines in: “Cap. America tells Christians they don’t know persecution until they’ve been victimized by Nazi Germany;” “Feminist Ally Captain America;” “Captain America talks about his gay experience under Nazi regime;” “Persecution 101 with Steven Rogers;” “Captain America paid for girl’s back alley abortion – See inside for details!” and so on. Accompanying the flowers is a note that just says:

 

“Godwin’s Law.”

 

Even that pales in comparison to the thing with the hooker. Tony _loves_ the thing with the hooker; calls him up and tells him to keep creating scandals with hookers, that he can’t believe his father never told him Steve’s superpower was getting into trouble. Steve just pinches the bridge of his nose and asks how Tony got his number. He doesn’t feel bad about this one either, although he _does_ apologise to Candyce, because she was just trying to make a living and now she has to _move_ because every person in North America knows what she looks like, where she lives, and that she’s the hooker who got Captain America to come home with her.

 

She just tells him not to worry about it, that she’s been getting job offers from classy escort agencies where she can make better connections anyhow. SHIELD PR asks him to stop speaking when reporters talk to him, but Steve doesn’t think _he_ is the one with a problem, not for talking to a prostitute like she’s a real person. And he visits sick children all the time to let them touch the shield, anyhow. He doesn’t understand why it becomes more newsworthy when that child happens to have a parent in the sex industry. He eventually _is_ forced to concede that saying “touch the shield” to a reporter who just asked a question about hookers was poor judgment on his part. Still, it could’ve been worse. At least he found out about the new definition of “boner” before anyone recorded him saying it in casual conversation.

 

But no matter how much joy Tony gets from his screw ups, and no matter how much he tries to smile and play it off like he doesn’t mind, the constant judgements on his character get to Steve. He doesn’t like being famous, he never has, but he had hoped once he woke up that the future would be easier. He always fought for a better future – for the idea of a brighter tomorrow. In some ways the world has gotten a lot closer. The things he sees that concern him come hand-in-hand with equality, affordable food, and advances in medicine. It should make him happy to see a world that is more open and accepting of everyone, but it’s hard to be happy about something you can’t experience personally.

 

More than anything else, Steve feels trapped. He is everyone’s role model; he is every American, and he doesn’t want to be. He does _not_ want to be on some of these peoples’ side. He doesn’t wantto protect the status quo; he doesn’t want to stand back and watch the rich get richer while the poor get poorer; Steve doesn’t want to stay quiet about human rights and constitutional violations. He’s his own damn person, his opinions shouldn’t have to be sanitized before they’re presented to the public. He never signed up to be a political pawn or a national icon; he enlisted to help people, because he agreed with what he was fighting for.

 

Now he watches shows on TV and reads opinion pieces in the papers, and sees the idea of Steve Rogers used interchangeably with the bald eagle. He is Freedom. Freedom to shoot the unarmed kid who looks twice at you; freedom to tell another joke about prison rape; freedom to tell people who has the right to get married; freedom to look the other way when a war vet ends up on the streets. “Captain America didn’t fight Nazis for me to be threatened in my own home;” “What a tragedy that Steve Rogers crashed in a world where traditional values meant something only to wake up in the moral degradation that is society today.”

 

No one bothers to ask him what he thinks, they just tell the world on his behalf, and he lets them. He doesn’t want to, but he lets them, because he doesn’t know how to let the world see the truth if he’s the only one talking. He misses Bucky so much his chest aches every morning and the last thing he sees at night is Bucky falling. Steve has fought a lot of battles, and he knows he’ll fight a lot more, but he doesn’t think he can fight this one. He’s never been very good at fighting for _himself_ , not without Bucky standing next to him, telling him he’s worth it.

 

He all but leaps at the opportunity to be re-assigned to D.C. full-time and is relieved to have an excuse to give up his New York apartment. It’s a sickening feeling – to be so displaced in a city he’s called home his whole life. He still loves the people and the energy, most of the time, but now it feels like the future has tainted most of his happy memories of the place. So much of Brooklyn is gentrified now – there’s precious little chance a reform school would ever be built on a residential street in Bedford-Stuyvesant today.

 

It _shouldn’t_ be a bad thing, but when Steve tries wandering through the old neighbourhoods, all he sees are the ghosts of lost friends and old failures. He sees them clear as anything – Bucky laughing alongside him; Lloyd staring at him accusingly from the shadows – sometimes even the Commandos, waiting expectantly for the next order that will never come. Steve can feel their stares and feel their lack like an open wound and there’s no one to share the burden; no one who knows Steve’s old secrets; no one who understands what he’s lost. It makes New York more of a stranger than a friend, and Steve can’t leave fast enough.

 

***

 

Steve _wants_ to feel guiltier for abandoning New York City, he really does, but his head is so much _clearer_ in D.C. he just can’t help it. There’s also the very real added bonus of the Black Widow, who is currently based out of Washington, and God help Steve, but he is completely falling for the charms of Natasha Romanov.

 

He tries to hold her at arm’s length, because he’s watched her just long enough to get an idea of how she operates: by finding a person’s weaknesses and insecurities and exploiting them. It doesn’t take a genius to realize how isolated Steve feels right now, and from the first time Natasha invites herself over to his apartment with a housewarming gift of wine and a DVD of _The Terminator_ , Steve has been certain that he’s become one of her assignments. Still, he genuinely likes her, even if she is only his friend because she’s working overtime to stop him from embarrassing SHIELD in this city, too. He especially likes that after their first few run-ins, he’s able to talk to her without feeling like an idiot.

 

It’s a rare thing for Steve to feel comfortable with a woman more or less his age who isn’t all hard and angry edges. And shockingly, Natasha _isn’t_ all no-nonsense professionalism, or at least, she doesn’t act like she is when they’re together. She’s calm and composed and entirely confident in her work – a person who knows how good she is and thoroughly enjoys her own competence. But as soon as the job is done, sometimes even when the job is running smoothly and doesn’t require constant attention, she’s friendly and has a sense of humour that could keep pace with the Commandos.

 

She reminds him a lot of Peggy – too much, in all honesty. She’s just a shade too similar to the girl he left back in the 1940s for Steve to be able to believe she’s on the level, especially after he hears agents talk about what she allegedly did to Tony. Something about her is too good to be true. Something about her is trying too hard.

 

So Steve is friendly with Natasha. He enjoys her company, and looks forward to the mischievous glint she gets in her eyes when she’s missing Clint and decides to focus her boredom on him instead. But he doesn’t trust her – not with his feelings, and not with his secrets, either. He won’t let himself be someone’s mark. His past is too important to him – too sacred – to let that happen.

 

He forces Natasha into the box labelled “work friend” and keeps her at arm’s length. Even when she surprises him by doing something unexpected that doesn’t seem spy-like at all, like doing a silly little dance when a mission is a success and she doesn’t think anyone is watching, or getting him to help her spend four months staging an elaborate prank on Hawkeye. Steve is fairly certain Peggy was never the sort of person to have a victory dance. Or to laugh indulgently at him as he makes her back up the Hitler murder scene ten times when she invites herself over with her copy of _Inglorious Basterds_.

 

“Why, Captain America,” she faux-demurs, in that playful, toothless way she has that Steve can’t even remember to be flustered by. “I had no idea psychotic berserker violence was your style.”

 

“I guess it’s really not,” Steve admits, smiling as Hitler’s face starts to pull away from his skull again on the screen in front of them. “But it sure is nice to watch sometimes, especially when you know the usual punch to the jaw and finger wagging won’t change anything. It’s nice when the bad guys get what they deserve.”

 

He can feel Natasha give him a calculating look after that and can’t help but wonder if she’s mentally compiling a report to send back to her handler. He doesn’t ask her to go back to the start of the scene again.

 

***

 

_The walk back to base camp isn’t an easy one. The men hike miles and miles across rough terrain, in oppressive heat and fully aware of their vulnerability behind enemy lines. Everyone is nervous and jumpy; they all know that just because they’ve escaped, it’s not a guarantee that they’re going to make it back to safety unscathed._

 

_Steve feels awful for them. He at least is operating at a significant advantage – even without the serum. He’s gotten proper sleep, and proper food, and hasn’t been tortured for god knows how long by a group of Nazis’ psychotic even by Nazi standards. Sometimes he falls back to let someone else take the lead, so he can take stock of the men suddenly under his care. He keeps an eye out for potential broken bones or infections or compromised lungs. He keeps an eye on the people who need the extra help because he feels responsible for each and every one of them. He makes the checks frequently, so it doesn’t take long before he starts to notice the others._

 

_It’s not everyone of course. Some of the men are justifiably focusing all their energy in putting one foot in front of the other, and frankly it’s all they should be expected to do. Absolutely none of them are in good enough shape to be rallying troops or running back and forth from one soldier to the next, making sure no one is in danger of collapsing. But a small handful of the men seem to be doing exactly that._

 

_Bucky is one of them, of course, even though the stupid jerk should be one of the ones who needs help – Steve found him strapped to a medical table all but losing his damn mind, for God’s sake. But no, Bucky stubbornly falls back with Steve each time he leaves the front and keeps pace with him, getting water to the folks who need it, helping to fashion makeshift slings, crutches, and stretchers for the ones who are flagging._

 

_The Asian from Fresno – whose name is actually Morita – is another, trotting from one man to the next, carefully assessing the men who stagger out of formation, and positioning them to the centre of the herd so it’s easier for the stronger soldiers to carry their weight._ _He calmly ignores the still semi-insulting chatter directed at him by Dugan, the man in the ridiculous regulation-breaking hat, who amiably helps Morita every single time and has obviously decided insults are going to be how he demonstrates his newfound friendship with the other man._

 

_Jones seems to be getting along with Dernier, the French soldier, like a house on fire. They talk to each other enthusiastically in French as they stroll up to a collapsed soldier, before Steve has a chance to reach him. They haul him up without a moment’s pause in whatever it is they’re talking about, and are howling with laughter as they drag the man between them, like they’re on way back to base after a night on the town instead of making a break for freedom from behind enemy lines._

 

_“I only caught about five words of that,” Bucky says in his ear as they both watch. “But I’m pretty sure it was_ filthy _, whatever it was.”_

 

_The Brit seems to have a similar sense of humour throughout the entire affair, treating everything around him like a great joke, jostling other soldiers in the ribs and getting snapped at more times than Steve can even count. It doesn’t take long to notice that Falsworth is only approaching the men with vacant or panicked expressions on their faces, and that he never lets up until they’re so irritated with him they’ve snapped back from whatever hell their heads have locked them into._

 

_The idea that there is anyone walking out of that prison camp with enough energy and humour to keep an entire battalion of men on their feet and moving steadily to safety boggles Steve’s mind. He’s convinced it would be impossible for any sane person, and he’s absolutely convinced that each and every one of these laughing men left their marbles back with the Nazis, but their reckless determination and cheerfulness become his touchstone. He looks for those loose cannons every time he checks on the others, and feels safer and more relaxed for knowing they’re there. War is madness, after all, so if he’s going to be in the thick of it, he can’t think of anyone better to be surrounded by than guys who have learned to embrace that lunacy with open arms._

 

***

 

He recognizes the military training in the man’s run before he’s finished stretching: paced; precise; and punishing. Steve feels himself smile when he senses the wave of resentment the second time he laps him, at the way the man’s feet hit the ground just a little faster – a competitive instinct stirring to wakefulness, even when he knows he can’t win.

 

It’s silly, but it calls to mind familiar feelings of good-natured resentment and camaraderie from his own days in the army, when the petty digs and insults served as their own strange system of support. Steve often catches himself looking back longingly to the days when he was trusted and appreciated as a friend and leader, not as figurehead. And right now, as he watches the unknown man lose patience, the memories don’t feel as distant as they usually do.

 

When the man actually starts to hurl good-natured abuse at his back, about the fifth time he has to hear “on your left,” Steve finds the breath to laugh, and it feels like the first time he’s drawn in air since coming out of the ice.

 

***

 

The man’s name is Sam Wilson, and if he notices the way Steve latches onto their conversation about displaced veterans with the desperation of a drowning man, he’s kind enough not to draw attention to it. Steve knows it isn’t smart to immediately let himself trust someone so soon after he’s met them. Hell, his whole life has been one long lesson in why people _don’t_ deserve his trust, and he’s the first to admit his gut instinct isn’t always right. But he also knows that when he gets something wrong, it tends to move in the other direction, like how he was wrong about the kind of people the Starks were, or when he looked at the footage of the Hulk for the first time and only saw a monster. When Steve’s instinct tell him this strongly to trust someone, it says it about people like Erskine and the Bowers. They said it about Bucky. Simply put, when Steve’s gut starts telling him this loudly to pay attention, Steve pays attention.

 

When he looks at Sam, he sees a man with no connections to Steve’s new life, and no shortage of connections to his old one. There are no ulterior motives, just a fellow soldier who understands what it’s like to feel too comfortable at night. He sees someone who knows what it is to be lost, but can still smile like everything is going to turn out alright. And God help Steve, but he needs that right now. He needs someone who knows what it feels like.

 

Still, none of that is to say that Sam isn’t slightly unnerving. It’s alarming how easily he starts asking about how Steve’s adjusting to life after the ice. It’s not that Steve feels he’s under a microscope, not exactly, but Sam has a way of getting straight to the point that makes Steve _want_ to talk to him. He wonders what exactly it is Sam does at the V.A., that he seems able to pick up on what Steve feels instinctively.

 

But no matter how inviting and open-ended Sam makes his statements, Steve is pretty sure telling his life story to a stranger next to the Washington Monument isn’t a good thing for Captain America to be doing. It isn’t something Steve Rogers particularly wants to do, either. Whether he considers himself in his 20s or his 90s, Steve’s still spent most of his life holding the important cards close to his chest. He’s not about to change that now, so when Sam asks him about the “good old days,” Steve only smiles before gamely launching into all the great things he’s been learning about in the 21st Century.

 

He’s debating just how much he’s prepared to be mocked for admitting his apparently embarrassing response to grocery stores – Rumlow took him once right after he got to D.C. Steve was hardly wet behind the ears at that point, but Rumlow took one look at his face and spent the entire trip avoiding him in the card aisle – when Sam mentions something called the _Trouble Man_ soundtrack.

 

“Everything you’ve missed jammed into one album.”

 

Steve’s heard that one before, but he’s happy to write it down in his notebook all the same – to let this become one more new memory to replace some of the old ones. He’s just closing the book when his phone buzzes with a text from Natasha:

 

“Mission alert. Extraction imminent. Meet at curb. :)”

 

Ever since Steve cut off her explanation of emoticons with “Oh! They’ve turned them onto their sides now? That makes more sense, doesn’t it?” Natasha has insisted on including one in every text she sends, no matter what it’s about. Steve tries to imagine her giggling to herself every time she hits the “send” button, and that just makes it better. He sort of likes that she’s decided he’s worthy of inside jokes.

 

At any rate, he likes smiley faces more than old man jokes, which are sort of low-hanging fruit at this point.

 

“Can anyone direct me to the Smithsonian? I’m looking for an old fossil.”

 

Case in point.

 

“You’re hilarious,” Steve comments mildly, once Sam and Natasha have finished flirting with each other shamelessly, and they’re pulling out into traffic.

 

“Thank you,” Natasha says, primly, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “I promise it’s all in good fun, though. I don’t mean anything by it.”

 

“Hmmm,” Steve says, giving her just enough of the leading response she’s obviously looking for to keep going. She just looks like she’s having such a good time.

 

“I would never go looking for you in the Smithsonian,” She says gravely.

 

“I _am_ on display there right now,” Steve points out.

 

“And I am sadly banned for life from all Smithsonian facilities,” she sighs.

 

“How do you get banned from the Smithsonian for life?” Steve wonders.

 

“They’re real sticklers about etiquette,” Natasha shrugs as she changes lanes. “Apparently gun fights next to the Declaration of Independence are frowned upon. Even if you didn’t miss.”

 

***

 

Steve thinks Natasha must have been instructed to keep closer tabs on him not long after Hawkeye was sent on a long-term recon mission halfway around the world. Maybe she has more time to work in-house ops now that she’s not constantly teaming up with Barton to fight crime, Steve’s not sure, but for almost a month now, she’s been in his back pocket during their down time, or even during lulls on mission. It’s almost feels like she enjoys gracelessly pestering him about his personal life, which Steve finds surprising, because the woman is supposedly a living legend in espionage.

 

Steve thinks she’s more like a bull in a china shop, albeit an unexpectedly charming one. He’s started to hate how much he enjoys her pestering, although he wishes with every fibre of his being that she’d quit asking about girls. It’s not that Steve _wants_ to lead her on – he just has no idea what she’s reporting back to Fury about, and this is one of those things that is nobody’s business but his own.

 

Sure, men liking men isn’t against the law anymore and they’re even allowed to get married some places, but Steve still remembers that prickling fear so vividly. He remembers how scared Bucky used to get about the “regular” neighbours looking twice at them, and thinks about how skittish and miserable Bucky would be if be if he knew Steve was freely telling people. He just can’t make himself say the words. Can’t say,

 

“I’m actually pretty sure there’s only ever going to be one person for me, and he’s gone now, so can we go back to the old person jokes for a while?”

 

It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to sort out who Steve meant. There’s more than enough footage out there of him, face lighting up every time Bucky so much as smiles his direction. So Steve strengthens his resolve, keeps deflecting her suggestions, and on the occasions where the urge to come clean gets too strong, he distracts himself by doing something else stupid and reckless instead. Like jumping out of airplanes.

 

***

 

“You know,” Rumlow tells him conversationally after the mission. “If you want Romanov to knock it off with the matchmaking, you could always just tell her. You know, use your words?”

 

“She seems to enjoy it,” Steve says.

 

“You mean making other people uncomfortable?” Rumlow asks, dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

 

Steve laughs a little, even though he feels bad about it. For some reason, Rumlow doesn’t like the Black Widow. Maybe it’s her past, or maybe it’s the way she can stare down every single member of the strike team. Still, it always gets his back up to hear Brock say snide things about her. He knows he’s a hypocrite, because he holds her at arm’s length just like the rest of them, but the more he’s around her, the more he thinks she doesn’t deserve people talking about her behind her back.

 

Even if it turns out she _has_ been playing him, something that looks like more of a possibility than ever, what with how she abandoned them mid-mission to carry out someone else’s orders. He shrugs Rumlow off as politely as he can, because as much as Steve doesn’t care for Brock’s gossipy schoolgirl form of bonding, the man has only ever tried to make Steve feel welcome. There’s no point in burning all his bridges, Steve reasons to himself, as he heads to the elevator to go light a fire or two under Director Fury.

 

***

 

_Private Lorraine is, well, she’s a little terrifying, to be honest. Steve has never been much good around women – he’s just never really had much to do with them. Growing up, the only women he interacted with were nuns, and then the odd cook or secretary. He didn’t really have much to do with women his own age until Bucky started setting up “dates,” and those were always an unmitigated disaster. He seems to get on quite well with Peggy, even though sometimes he gets so worried about saying the wrong thing he ends up saying the worst thing. Whenever that happens, she just turns to him and gives him a Look for a little while until he seems suitably embarrassed, and they carry on as they were before. Steve vaguely wonders if he’s getting better at this whole woman thing, because she really seems to genuinely enjoy his company. And then Lorraine happens._

 

_It’s not the first time he’s met her – she’s always around headquarters, coming up to Peggy with updates or things to sign, or to drag her or Howard off to another meeting – but usually she just smiles his direction and they exchange hellos. He’s never really spoken with her before. Everything’s happened so fast since he went after the 107 th, he’s just assumed she has better things to do. Needless to say, it’s a surprise when she starts waving a newspaper in his face, calling him a hero._

 

_“The women of America owe you their thanks,” she, well, purrs. “All those relieved wives who will get their husbands back at the end of all this.”_

 

_“Oh,” Steve stammers, casting about for the exit. “You know, I don’t think they were all married.”_

 

_She looks at him curiously before shaking her head a little and advancing closer, reaching out to grab him by the tie. Steve feels like he’s about to have an asthma attack again._

 

_“I have a message for you from the women of America, Captain,” she says, leaning over to whisper into his ear, before pulling him back behind the filing cabinets. She’s alarmingly stronger than she looks. They’re only kissing for a few short seconds, and it’s probably more to the point to say that_ she _is kissing_ him _when there’s the sound of someone pointedly clearing their throat behind them. Steve pulls back as quickly as he can, gently trying to extricate his uniform from Private Lorraine’s determined fingers as he does._

 

_“Oh, Peggy,” he says, a little lamely as he sees her there, hands on her hips, a decidedly unimpressed expression on her face. “This isn’t – it’s not what it looks like.”_

 

_“It looks like you’re on the prowl for that dance partner to me,” she says, sharply. She’s doesn’t take her eyes off Lorraine the entire time she speaks._

 

_“It was a hero’s welcome,” Lorraine says decorously. Peggy snorts and hisses,_

 

_“I will be discussing this with you later. Captain, we’re ready to test those weapons now.”_

 

_Steve trails after her, a little lost. She won’t slow down and she’s not looking at him._

 

_“Are you mad?” He asks._

 

_“Very,” she says. “I just haven’t decided who I’m mat at yet.”_

 

_“I’m confused,” Steve offers._

 

_Peggy abruptly comes to a halt before spinning on her heel to glare hard at him. Finally she just snorts, “_ Men _,” before spinning around again and walking away just as briskly as before._

 

_He’s still confused as anything a few hours later when Private Lorraine corners him again, this time herding him into an empty room off the hall. But instead of putting her hands all over him, she only says,_

 

_“You should ask Peggy Carter out on a date.”_

 

_“Excuse me?” Steve says, wishing she just wouldn’t talk to him at all. She’s so fierce that he’s more worried to be left alone with her than he is with Red Skull at this point._

 

_“You and Agent Carter,” Lorraine repeats, slower. “I’m sure you would find that it’s worth your while.”_

 

_Steve narrows his eyes and is about to ask what she means by that when there’s a sharp “Private!” and Peggy is scurrying up to them looking positively murderous. She still sounds perfectly composed however, when she reaches up and hauls Steve back by his shoulders, saying,_

 

_“That will be all, Private. Please refrain from harassing the war heroes.”_

 

_“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t keep losing your nerve,” Lorraine says, unrepentant in the extreme. “You said you could trust him, and we don’t have much time before he’s off again. What’s the problem?”_

 

_“Private,” Peggy starts, but Steve interrupts her._

 

_“Would someone_ please _just tell me what is going on?” He begs._

 

_Peggy looks around nervously and a little guiltily as Private Lorraine smiles sweetly at him and says,_

 

_“We wanted to offer you the opportunity to do a little undercover work, Captain. A side mission, if you will.”_

 

_“I don’t really have any experience in spy work,” Steve says, guardedly._

 

_“Oh don’t worry,” Lorraine says, ignoring the scathing look Peggy is giving her. “We’re almost certain you’re qualified.”_

 

***

 

_“We can’t be_ that _obvious,” Bucky says later on, when Steve relates the conversation. “Can we?”_

 

_“Private Lorraine seems to think so,” Steve says. “And since she hasn’t even_ seen _us together, and Peggy wouldn’t meet my eye, I’ve got a pretty good idea of who she was talking to when she formed_ that _opinion.”_

 

_Bucky doesn’t answer, just stares off into space shaking his head in disbelief._

 

_“I can’t believe you’re forcing me into an arranged marriage.”_

 

_“I am not,” Steve protests, even though he’s pretty certain he can see Bucky’s shoulders shaking with laughter in the dim lighting. “I only agreed to court Peggy, and to tell you about Lorraine. I didn’t say anything about marriage.”_

 

_“Steve,” Bucky says, not a little condescendingly. “Can you honestly tell me that there isn’t some dame out there I’ve never met planning a huge post-war double wedding with my name on the invitations?”_

 

_Steve’s silence is all the answer Bucky seems to need and he sets off laughing again, leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder now as he gasps for air. Steve smiles and rubs Bucky’s back despite the fact that he’s the one being laughed at. Bucky doesn’t really laugh much anymore. Not since Zola. He doesn’t sleep well, either. It’s the only reason Steve risks having their cots pushed up together like this at all when they’re on base, even in the privacy of his own quarters._

 

_“You don’t have to agree to anything,” Steve says again. “I just thought… hasn’t it worried you? Now that everyone knows who I am, we aren’t going to be able to sneak back to that hole in the wall in Brooklyn and expect to be left alone while we grow old together. This might be the best way to go unnoticed, and it would help out two really great dames who are trying to work around the same problem.”_

 

_“I’ll think about it, Stevie,” Bucky says, reaching out to stroke Steve’s cheek lightly. “But first, how about we try to win this war, okay?”_

 

***

 

The conversation with Fury leaves Steve shaken to his core. The idea of stopping a threat before it’s a threat makes Steve feel sick, mostly because he thinks he understands it. If someone gave him the chance to go back in time and kill Hitler in infancy, or to go to Barry’s School for Boys and stamp out the corruption before it could spread through the faculty, Steve doesn’t think he would be able to resist the urge either. He hates that about himself, because he knows that realistically, so many other people would have to be sacrificed for those few threats to be taken out early, in a mass slaughter of innocence that would make him more of a Cronus than a Prometheus. It would be the only way to be certain, since no one has actually mastered time travel, and no matter how pretty Fury dresses up the sales pitch, all he’s proposing is killing a monster by becoming a bigger monster.

 

He finds himself in the Smithsonian Museum of American History, looking despondently at the Captain America and Howling Commandos exhibit. He misses his friends. He misses the trust he knew he could place in them.

 

“He saved over a thousand men,” the old footage of Peggy narrates, looking sad. “Including the man who would – who would become my husband, as it turns out. Even after he died, Steve was still changing my life.”

 

Steve wonders who it was that Peggy ended up marrying. He hopes it was someone she was honest with at least. It hurts to think of her living day in and day out with someone, hiding such an important part of her life. He wonders about what happened to Private Lorraine, if she and Peggy were able to stick it out over the years. He’s guiltily searched Peggy’s name on the internet since he’s woken up, trying to figure out if she told the world about her orientation. Aside from some truly alarming artwork, there isn’t much of anything. She’s just the girl who Steve Rogers left behind. He truly hopes there was another reason she kept it hidden: privacy, maybe. Lies of omission to protect someone else are hard things to carry, Steve is learning. He doesn’t want to find out that Peggy has wasted her life keeping his memory safe.

 

It seems to be a thing that a lot of people are willing to do: lie to keep the image of Captain America untarnished. There are so many facts about him before the serum in the exhibit, including an exhaustive breakdown of his medical history. And yet it’s still so light on truth. There’s no explanation for how he lost the hearing in that ear, or for why a young man with professional secondary art training doesn’t have records of making it to high school. His entire childhood is glossed over with a simple “best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield.” There’s nothing else.

 

Steve wonders if they looked for anything else, if they didn’t want to take Steve’s past at face value, if they ever looked into the vague backgrounds Steve and Bucky reluctantly offered. He wonders if anyone ever spoke to Cal and Rich, or to the Bowers, or even someone like Jack Preston. So many people he’s known, who knew him, who would have recognized him in the movie reels, even if they couldn’t understand the transformation. But none of them seem to have said a word about where he came from or where he disappeared to after the orphanage. No one has mentioned his relationship with Bucky, or where they used to live and who their friends used to be. Steve wishes he knew why.

 

There had to be some impressive amounts of money to be made off a tell-all book about the Captain and his secret double life. And even without greed as a motivating factor, what about the gay rights movement? What about the Bowers and their determination to shut down an abusive and dangerous reform school? Being able to trot out Captain America as the mascot for either cause could have been such a boon. Steve feels guilty about how grateful he is that it never happened. It probably _should_ have happened.

 

He lets himself wonder, suddenly, what he’s only let himself think about late at night when he can’t sleep. He wonders if that school was ever closed. He never returned to that street in Bedford-Stuyvesant after waking up – too afraid that he would still see it standing there – as a halfway house or a detention centre for dangerous juvenile offenders – whatever it is they would call it now. He’s not sure if he’s brave enough to handle knowing nothing changed, to find out that he and Bucky had a chance to stop it, but they waited too long and no help ever came.

 

***

 

He goes to see Peggy at the V.A., finally. He’s been to see her before, once, but it was upsetting enough that he’s ashamed to say he hasn’t been back since. She hadn’t even recognized him, just spoke to him like he was one of the volunteer visitors who occasionally stop by, chattering non-stop about her sister and niece. Steve wasn’t even aware Peggy had a sister, but he got the impression that Peggy’s niece isn’t much older than he is, so he supposes she must have been a fairly late addition to the family.

 

Today when he walks into the room, Peggy is just getting off the phone with someone, and her eyes are so bright and sharp, Steve’s heart catches a little in his chest.

 

“Peggy?” He says, cautiously.

 

She looks at him, and her face lights up into the most beautiful smile Steve has ever seen, so welcoming it makes him feel like crying.

 

“Steve!” She beams. “I was just talking about you. I was complaining to Sharon that you hadn’t come to see me yet, even though they kept trying to tell me you were real. I told her, ‘I don’t care how many news stories you show me, I won’t believe it until you march him into this room.’”

 

He doesn’t tell her about the other visit – he doesn’t want to ruin the happy relief flooding through him right now, better than any drug. Instead he just tries to hold back tears as he crosses over to her bed and grasps onto her frail hand as tightly as he dares.

 

“I’m sorry,” he manages.

 

“Oh Steve,” she says, fondly and with total understanding in her voice. “I know. This is hard.”

 

God, he has missed her _so much_. No one has ever seen right to the centre of him as easily as Peggy, not even Bucky. No one has understood his need to do something and fight, even when the world says no, quite like Peggy. They’re both cut from the same cloth.

 

“Sorry I took so long,” he says, after a long quiet moment when he just sits and holds her hand and remembers.

 

“It’s alright,” Peggy says, wiping away a few tears impatiently. “You still came. Sharon said you would. She grew up hearing all about you and she said, ‘He’ll be there, Mom. He’ll be there.’”

 

Steve looks up at her, confused.

 

“I thought she was your niece?”

 

Peggy quirks an amused eyebrow at him.

 

“You’ve been doing homework,” she says, playfully. Steve doesn’t correct her. “I never got to play house with you Steve, like we planned so long ago, but I still played house, pretended to be happily married, before I very publicly determined to never love again when my husband died years later. It seemed so much safer to move in with my divorcee sister – who as it happens can dredge up a rather convincing English accent when necessary – and her newly adopted daughter than publicly admit my love for another person.”

 

She looks down, obviously still distraught after all this time when she admits,

 

“My husband died under… suspicious circumstances, I’m afraid. I always suspected it had something to do with my job, although nothing was ever proven. I didn’t want to endanger anyone else that way again.”

 

“Peggy, I’m so sorry,” Steve tells her, even though part of him feels better knowing that she didn’t spend her whole life without the family he always knew she wanted. If he had stayed, there would have been no way for her to get even that.

 

She smiles at him again.

 

“That’s all water under the bridge now, Steve. In the past and best left there. Now, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to since you’ve been back. Tell me about some of the scandals you’ve caused, and don’t try to lie about it, I can still watch the news. I know you can’t help yourself.”

 

***

 

The visit goes amazingly until, suddenly, it isn’t. In one split second an admittedly tiring Peggy goes from fully conversant to sobbing, looking at Steve like he’s a ghost come back to haunt her, or worse yet, take her someplace better. He didn’t think there would be a worse feeling than knowing she didn’t recognize him, but causing her this level of distress and pain is so much worse. He holds her and lets her cry until she falls asleep before he leaves, feeling no less guilty than when he walked in, despite all the fears she managed to put to rest.

 

He walks for some time in a sort of fog, not really thinking about it when he wanders into the V.A. He doesn’t question his footsteps until he hears a familiar voice coming from one of the meeting halls.

 

“Some stuff you leave there, other stuff you bring back. It’s our job to figure out how to carry it.”

 

Steve doesn’t know why he decided to go to a stranger when he feels like this. There’s still that uncertainty when he talks to Natasha, sure, but objectively he supposes he trusts her more than Sam. Or at least, he should.

 

But Steve honestly doesn’t know if he’s said a single serious thing to Natasha, not counting the times he’s giving inspiring speeches or talking strategy. She is a good, reliable person, no matter what games she’s playing on the side. Steve _wants_ to be able to talk to her, but he wants to talk to _her_ , not the person she thinks he’d most like hearing. He just wants solid ground beneath him for _once_ , and right now, watching from the back of the hall, Sam looks like a rock in the middle of a desert.

 

Steve watches as the veterans file out of the meeting and say their goodbyes. Sam comes up to him when the last stragglers are making their way out the door.

 

“Look who it is,” Sam says, smiling. “The Running Man.”

 

Steve smiles back.

 

“Thinking about sitting in on a few sessions, Cap?” Sam asks.

 

“Thought about it,” Steve says, focusing on keeping his tone light and pleasant instead of thinking about the person he left in that hospital room, or the memories that are threatening to disturb his easy-going exterior. “It looks like they can get pretty intense.”

 

“Well combat is pretty intense,” Sam says, tone equally agreeable. “You know how it is, I’m sure. There’s a lot of shit you have to wade through, even when you’re not in the thick of it anymore. Lot of guilt.”

 

“You know something about guilt?” Steve asks, zeroing in on the subtle note of sadness in Sam’s voice. He can’t help it. He likes helping people, too.

 

“Afraid so,” Sam says, before briefly explaining about his wingman who didn’t come back one mission. “Didn’t seem to be much point in staying on for another tour after that. Before, I did what I did because it made me happy, knowing I was making a difference. But I couldn’t make much difference for Riley, when it came down to it. The thought of going back out there just made me miserable, so I walked away.”

 

“Sounds nice,” Steve murmurs, staring out the window at across the hall. “The walking away bit.”

 

“You wanna walk, Captain?” Sam asks, leaning against the wall. The hall is completely silent around them.

 

“Wouldn’t mind feeling happy about something again,” Steve admits. His heart is beating like he’s on a mission. It’s strange, saying things out loud that he’s never said to another living person. “You know, feeling like I could hold my head high and say I was standing on the right side, with the folks I knew had my back. You were wrong about me missing the good old days. I just wish I still had the people who used to live there.”

 

“Well, missing people,” Sam says. “That at least I can relate to. Not so much the sleeping beauty routine.”

 

Steve chuckles.

 

“You have a girl back then?” Sam asks. “I’ve been to that exhibit, saw the lady in the footage. She sure was choked up about you.”

 

“Well she was one of my best friends,” Steve concedes. “We wanted to get married, but she wasn’t really my girl.”

 

“If you’re going to lecture me about how you can’t own a woman, I’m going to be forced to believe you didn’t sleep as heavily through the second wave of feminism as you thought,” Sam cautions, making Steve laugh again. He doesn’t take the out provided to him either, though. Talking to Sam sort of feels like going to see the priest. It feels reckless and exhilarating and freeing. Steve couldn’t stop now if he tried.

 

“You aren’t the only one who worked with a partner on the front lines,” He says. “I definitely had a different sort of relationship with mine though.”

 

There’s a brief pause, and then Sam says in a level, controlled voice.

 

“You and Sergeant Barnes?”

 

Steve nods.

 

“You were together.”

 

Another nod.

 

“In the _Brokeback_ sense of the word ‘together.’”

 

“I’m really struggling to sort out all the contemporary terminology, but we were in love if that’s what you’re trying to get at,” Steve says.

 

The silence coming from Sam is more stunned than it is judgmental so Steve takes a chance and keeps going.

 

“It was awful then because, you know, that was the sort of thing that got people arrested, or put into a concentration camp if you lived in the wrong country, even though I didn’t know about _that_ until I woke up. And it was really hard for someone like me to keep it quiet, because I was in the spotlight so much during the war. I hated all that fame because it felt like lying, like all those people were cheering on a man who didn’t even exist. Underneath all that muscle I was just a skinny little queer from Brooklyn starting fights I couldn’t win, just like I always used to. No one would put their trust in that though, so I just kept pretending. I’m still pretending.”

 

“Why not just tell the truth?” Sam asks, finally. “Can’t get in trouble for it now.”

 

“But I can,” Steve says, tightly. He can’t stop talking now that he’s started. “Seventy years, Sam. That’s seven decades building up shrines and writing songs and honouring the memory of a lie. There’s no Captain America – there’s just me, and so long as I keep going out and fighting with that stupid shield, I’m not really at liberty to show the world the real Steve Rogers. No one would believe in Captain America if they knew it was an act.”

 

“Because you’re gay?” Sam asks, curiously.

 

“Because I’m a person,” Steve says. “People believe in ideas, Sam, and their idea of Captain America is the inspiring story of a little kid who got to work up from nothing and overcome indeterminate hardships to become something great and superhuman. They don’t want to hear about a reform school runaway who took off and left other helpless kids to be molested and murdered just to save his own worthless skin. They don’t want to hear about how he loved someone who didn’t look like Peggy Carter. They don’t want to know about _me_ , about what it felt like watching Bucky fall, knowing I was losing _everything_ , and that I wasn’t able to stop and let myself come to terms with what I lost. Fuck, I _still_ haven’t wrapped my head around it. Can’t make myself realize that he’s not here.”

 

Steve angrily swipes at his eyes, avoiding making eye contact with Sam. He’s not ready for the vaguely traumatized expression of a man who’s just had every illusion of their childhood hero blown to pieces. It’s a surprise, to say the least, when Sam finally _does_ speak.

 

“Captain America just said ‘fuck.’ I don’t even know where my head is at right now.”

 

Steve starts laughing and wipes at his eyes again, finally looking over at Sam. Sam is smiling a little, but he looks all kinds of concerned and he says,

 

“Seriously man, do you, like, need a hug or something? That’s some rough shit.”

 

Steve doesn’t get a chance to answer before Sam is reaching over to pull Steve into his arms, saying,

 

“You know what? Screw it. _I_ want a hug after all that. You can’t keep that kind of shit locked up inside you, dude. How many decades have you been waiting to offload all that?”

 

“Too many,” Steve sighs, hugging back. It actually _does_ feel pretty good. He misses closeness. He hasn’t felt a lot of it since losing Bucky.

 

“You know,” Sam says, slowly, after he’s let go of Steve. “I get that the whole thing where you dated a Howling Commando would be hard to explain to people, and I fully respect that airing dirty laundry is not a thing that people do for kicks. You don’t owe anyone your life story, but seriously man, I think if you wanted to talk about how hard things were during the Depression and the war, it wouldn’t shatter too many people’s faith in the American Dream or whatever. The only people who think your life was easy are the same idiots who think Jesus was white. Plus, there’s already _a lot_ of people who think you and Barnes were secretly going at it when the cameras were off. I swear to God, I have an ex who practically got a doctorate writing about nothing else except how the two of you were soulmates.”

 

Steve grins at him for half a second before looking down at his hands as they worry at the sleeve on his jacket.

 

“Maybe don’t mention this conversation to her,” he says.

 

Sam snorts.

 

“No chance of that. That woman was so crazy when we split up I had to delete my Facebook account so she’d leave me be. I had to give up Farmville for that she-devil; I’m not telling her _anything_.”

 

Steve laughs, even though he has no idea what Farmville is. There’s a long pause before Sam finally says,

 

“Hey. Why don’t we head out before the next event comes in here to set up? We can go somewhere private. Then, if you still really feel the need to get any more of this off your chest, it doesn’t have to be in the middle of the V.A.”

 

Steve looks at him curiously. Sam shrugs.

 

“It’s not a fun way to spend an afternoon,” Steve says uncertainly.

 

“I’m getting that impression,” Sam says, grabbing his coat. “Tell you what. You tell me about some of your life trauma, and I’ll tell you about some of mine. The stuff with Riley alone could fill a damn book, and that can’t even hold a candle to the stuff I could say about my dad.”

 

Steve opens his mouth to say no, but he’s already started to follow Sam out to his car, so he climbs in next to him. He’s absolutely right when he said it wouldn’t be a fun way to spend an afternoon, but that night as he’s slowly climbing the stairs to his apartment, he feels lighter than he has in a long time. Kate is leaving her apartment with a basket of laundry, somewhere in the distance someone is playing “It’s Been a Long, Long Time,” and Steve is finally starting to feel like he’s going to be able to get a handle on the 21st Century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to work _very hard_ to come up with a way to use that "killing a baby to kill a threat makes you become the bigger asshole by default" trope because some of the most famous examples from Steve's time were biblical and I did NOT want to compare any iconic Jews to Hitler no thank you. (Based on earlier events in this chapter, I'm pretty sure Steve appreciates this.) I ended up using Cronus and Prometheus as my examples there, and I don't know what all y'all learned about Greek mythology in school so quickly: Cronus was the Titan in Charge until he found out that one of his children was destined to kill and overthrow him. Solution: eat all the children. It would have worked but he managed to miss the last one, a little tyke by the name of Zeus, who grew up to become King God, and make _really_ questionable love life choices. Prometheus was the super nice fellow who snuck onto Mount Olympus and stole fire for humanity, which made him hero of the common man, and punching bag of the gods.


	6. Vexed to Nightmare, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about Natasha in this fic: I started to plot this fic _way_ before the movie came out. I had even started to write a few scenes focused on Steve and Co. looking for Bucky, always with the vague idea that I would adjust what needed to be adjusted when the movie was released so it would fit into the MCU canon. Aaaaand then the movie came out, and I don't know what you all know about the Black Widow but yeeeeaaaah. Her MCU story doesn't line up with her comic story at all ~~at least not until they release a Black Widow movie focusing on how everything we know about her is a carefully constructed red herring oh please oh please oh please~~. Anyhow, until such time as my wild conspiracy theories are proven right, Natasha's current movie back story does NOT fit into my story at all. I have improvised and sort of made a modified background for her based on both. Sorry if it's a little confusing ~~I'm lying I'm lying I'm not sorry at all goddamn everyone her comic back story is SO COOL. MCU, you use her comic back story. Use it now!~~
> 
> WARNINGS: Some discussion of some of the nastier WWII war crimes, and this chapter is the first one to really start bringing the violence. And gore (I know a lot about how bodies decompose now - government agencies are probably very concerned about my search history). It's going to escalate from here on out, folks. That's going to bring a host of warnings that I hadn't considered (because somehow I always end up figuring these things out as I go and not before). The big one is only hinted at in this chapter but it will get worse. I hadn't exactly accounted for how traumatizing all of this vengeance is going to be for the Winter Soldier, but apparently it is. There are a lot of issues that are starting up now involving identity crises, further loss of autonomy, and escalating levels of self-awareness in a situation where self-awareness is by default extremely upsetting. Aw man. Why do I hurt the ones I love?
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta, [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness) who neutralizes my superpower. (That sounds bad unless you know that my superpower is the ability to drop entire words from the middle of sentences, rendering them meaningless.)

 

 

 

He wants to ask Natasha how she knew the slugs were Soviet made. He wants to know why she went stiff as a board when she hears the assassin had a metal arm. He wants to know what she isn’t telling him. He wants to bang on the glass and force the doctors to keep trying as they pull away and turn off the machines, wants to yell at Hill until she orders them to get back to work. He doesn’t want to watch another good man die, because Nick Fury _is_ a good man, no matter how rarely they agree with each other. Instead he stands stock-still and watches Fury code in front of them. He listens to Natasha’s choked, agonized breathing beside him and closes his eyes for one long moment. He is so tired of all of this.

 

That feeling of bone-deep exhaustion follows him as they look at Fury’s lifeless body, and it’s still there when Natasha corners him, demanding to know what Fury told him before he was shot. Steve does not trust Natasha to have his back on a good day, but he doesn’t for a second believe that Fury expected him to include her on his SHIELD-wide list of people not to trust. The fact of the matter is that there’s some security in knowing that no one ever trusts Natasha. It’s no secret that her unswerving loyalty is only directed towards Hawkeye and Nick Fury, and that she’s inherently distrustful of any and all government run organizations, even the ones that she’s in. If there’s corruption in SHIELD, Natasha Romanov doesn’t have a part in it.

 

However, Steve still balks at the idea of telling her anything. Something about Natasha seems close to out of control right now, and he doesn’t like it. He’s never fully understood her relationship with Fury, but it’s obvious she’s taking his death hard, and despite her measured, calculating actions that even now inform everything she does, there’s something desperate in her with Fury gone that Steve doesn’t like. Usually she works so hard to hide any ulterior motives, to present herself as the person you want her to be, but now everything is laid completely bare. Steve can tell she is planning to go after who did this, and that is not something that he has time to deal with. Not when he’s trying to sort through the same catastrophe on his own end.

 

He doesn’t recognize his decision as the mistake it was for an embarrassingly long time, not until hours have passed and he’s watching Rumlow and the rest of the strike team file onto the elevator in groups of twos and threes. Steve isn’t an idiot. He knows that with Fury gone the playing field has changed and Captain America has become an unacceptable risk. As he watches Rumlow’s hand twitch minutely towards his holstered electric baton, he thinks about Natasha and how, with Fury out of the picture, she’s become as big a problem to SHIELD as he is. At least if she was here, they could be problematic together. But what’s done is done, and it won’t do him any good to keep beating around the bush just so he can relive his screw ups. Steve has never liked letting the other guy begin the fight.

 

“Before we get started, does anyone want to get out?”

 

It has the desired effect. Rumlow leaps into action, slamming the emergency stop button, and as the elevator shudders to a halt all ten men are on him at once. Steve lets the old anger he always keeps locked down inside him come up to the surface, joining in with the fresh outrage that’s been simmering ever since he saw a beaten Nick Fury hiding in his house. He punches and kicks and lashes out like a wounded animal and it feels _good_. Steve has never been one to talk about the things that are bothering him. He’s spent a lifetime training himself to put his feelings to one side until the job is done, but when it comes to this? When it comes to fighting and hurting and breaking someone with his bare hands, that’s when he lets the anger and the rage and the hurt guide him and it always makes him feel so alive.

 

Bucky hated how Steve would run headlong into a fight; always said one day Steve would get himself killed, and then where would Bucky be? But Bucky had liked the fighting just much as Steve; he had just liked finishing someone off more than the hitting itself. Steve can’t help think about the way they fought together, especially after the serum, as he dodges batons and tasers. They were a seamless unit; Steve starting the violence and Bucky ending it. The closest he’s come to someone who can anticipate his moves as well as Bucky did is with Natasha. He _really_ should have involved her in this meeting with Pierce.

 

He lets his guard down for half a second and one of the super powered magnetic cuffs slides onto his wrist. It takes no less than four men to wrestle his arm to the wall. Steve manages to land a vicious kick to one of their heads, slamming it against the side of the glass. The man doesn’t get up again, and Steve tries to keep his focus. Bucky always said he loses sight of the big picture when he fights in close quarters like this. Natasha has said the same thing. A taser hits him square in the back and white hot pain screams through his nervous system, even with the suit’s protection.

 

Steve has gone drinking with these men. He went with Jackson to his daughter’s elementary school so she could brag to her classmates that her dad got to work with Captain America, for God’s sake. Steve has let himself be show-and-tell for these assholes, and now they have him cornered like a rat in a cage. He lashes out and knocks the second cuff away before using his free hand to pull on the trapped one. He has to pull with all the strength he has, actually brace his entire body against the elevator door, but _finally_ it gives in time for him to spin and meet Rumlow full on as the man pulls himself back up to his feet, breathing hard. He holds his hands up in truce.

 

“Whoa, big guy, hold up,” he says.

 

Steve pauses, slightly, tries to get more space between them but there’s really nowhere else to go.

 

“I just want you to know, this isn’t personal,” says Rumlow before the rod is suddenly jammed into Steve’s torso and turned on to full power.

 

The world is on fire again, and all Steve can think of is how many times he’s trusted this man with his _life_ ; how many times Rumlow’s been his back up. He thinks about grocery shopping and greeting cards, and he feels sick. He knocks the baton out of Rumlow’s hands and swings out hard, punching Rumlow right on the jaw before sweeping his feet out from under him and bringing an elbow down to the back of his head as Rumlow flails for balance. He goes down hard and this time he doesn’t get back up again.

 

“It kinda feels personal,” Steve mutters, picking up his shield and using its solid edge to break off the cuff.

 

He needs to get the hell away from this building and back to that flash drive. And then he thinks he needs to find Natasha.

 

***

 

The flash drive is gone from the vending machine when he gets back to the hospital because _of course_ it is. _Of course_ someone found where he squirrelled it away for safe-keeping. Now the damned thing is probably in the hands of some civilian, or one or Pierce’s lackeys, or –

 

Someone snaps their gum behind him. He’s sees Natasha’s reflection in the glass and before he even thinks about what he’s doing, he spins and shoves her into the nearest room. He gets the strong impression that Natasha lets it happen as a professional courtesy, so they don’t have this conversation in a crowded hospital hallway.

 

“Where is it?” He demands.

 

“Safe,” she hisses, staring at him like she can’t believe he’s mad at her right now. He’s not sure what she thought would happen.

 

“What’s on it?” Steve asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Natasha says.

 

Steve scoffs.

 

“I _don’t_ ,” she insists. “I only _act_ like I know everything, Rogers.”

 

“Why are you still here then?” Steve asks. “Why haven’t you tried to find out?”

 

“I was waiting for you,” she says.

 

“Okay,” Steve says, “but why?”

 

Natasha shrugs a little.

 

“I don’t know who I can trust at SHIELD right now, but I trust you. I thought it would be better to work together on this. We make a great team, Rogers.”

 

And if that’s not a line, Steve was born yesterday. It’s much too close to what he wants her to say to possibly be the truth. He stares hard at her, concentrating on conveying all the “pull the other one” he can muster into his expression. She sags a little and rolls her eyes.

 

“Fine,” she says. “I need your help. I need to track down the man who did this, and when I find him, it’ll take more than just me to keep him from running.”

 

“Why do you need to find him?” Steve asks.

 

“I’m not sure yet,” Natasha sighs and leans her head against the wall. For once she looks as lost as Steve always feels. “Maybe to make him pay. Mostly to find out why.”

 

Steve narrows his eyes at her.

 

“You know who did this. That’s how you knew the make of the bullets.”

 

“I know his code name,” Natasha concedes. “But I don’t think anyone really _knows_ the Winter Soldier.”

 

“The Winter Soldier?” Steve repeats.

 

“He’s a legend. Stories about him go back at least as far as to the Bay of Pigs. Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists, but he’s been credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years.”

 

“That’s impossible,” Steve says. “Is the title passed down from one agent to the next, or are you honestly trying to tell me he brings a walker with him on all his missions?”

 

“Do you?” Natasha shoots back before visibly reigning herself in and adding, “The title isn’t passed on, not unless the metal prosthetic arm is being passed along with it.”

 

“The man I chased wasn’t old, Natasha,” Steve says.

 

She looks uncomfortable before she says,

 

“I don’t understand a lot of details about him. It was a long time ago, and he mostly kept to himself. But he’s real. I’ve worked with him before.”

 

“When you were freelance?” Steve asks.

 

She shakes her head.

 

“When I worked for the Soviets. I thought he was part of the same program that trained me, but it looks like he was outside the organization.”

 

“If you want to find him so you can have a touching reunion there’s a good chance you’ll be disappointed,” Steve warns. “This guy wasn’t interesting in explaining himself, Natasha. Even if he could be convinced to change sides, I’m hardly in a position to make an offer. I just downed a SHIELD aircraft, they aren’t going to be happy if I negotiate with terrorists on their behalf.”

 

Natasha raises an eyebrow at that, but only says,

 

“I don’t want to negotiate. I don’t want to bring him in. I want to understand.”

 

“Understand what?” Steve asks.

 

“I thought I could trust him, once,” she says, simply. “Even if we weren’t playing for the same team, I guess I thought there would be some sort of… line. Then the last time I saw him, he shot straight through me to take out the ambassador I was meant to protect.”

 

She lifts her shirt a little to show him a scar along her stomach.

 

“I almost bled out, and I watched him walk away without a second glance. I want to know why. I want to know why he came back today. I don’t have a lot of people who I trust, Steve, and I lost one of those people today. The Winter Soldier was the first person I ever believed in, and he’s betrayed me before. Now that it’s becoming a pattern, I think I deserve answers. Maybe a little payback, if it turns out to be necessary, that’s all.”

 

Steve stares at her for another long moment.

 

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go find out what’s on that flash drive. Maybe it’ll get us a little closer to finding your old friend.”

 

***

 

“Kiss me.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.”

 

“Yes. _Yes, they do_.”

 

Natasha rolls her eyes and grabs the back of his head, yanking him down to force their mouths together. Steve wonders what it is about himself that encourages strange women to kiss him. He’s moving to pull away when he catches sight of someone who could be Rumlow on the opposite escalator, and his head finally catches up with what’s happening. He stops struggling and leans in closer, carefully placing a hand on Natasha’s waist. He feels her let out a slight huff of laughter as her hand chases his and tries to slide it further down on her hip. He lets her, albeit reluctantly. Her other hand slides away from his hair now that she knows he won’t pull away and runs down the length of his back. And then keeps going. He pulls away when they get to the bottom of the escalator and gives her his best chastising scowl.

 

“Can’t blame a girl for being curious,” she says, unrepentantly. “Still feel uncomfortable?”

 

“I feel violated,” Steve mutters, and Natasha huffs out another laugh before grabbing his hand and pulling him after her.

 

***

 

There’s a brief fight in the parkade which could have been avoided if Natasha would have just agreed to let Steve leave a note behind for the poor person who’s truck is going to be missing when they’re done at JC Penny’s, but she won’t budge.

 

“You’re really an idiot sometimes, Steve,” she snaps, as she herds him into the car. “And you’re eating into our lead. I’ll help you hack the DMV when this is done so you can return it to them personally, okay? Happy now?”

 

Steve is, actually, but he keeps scowling anyhow, keeping up the act so he doesn’t have to admit anything. From Natasha’s smirk, he’s not fooling anyone.

 

***

 

“So,” Natasha says conversationally, like she hasn’t just been scolded about dirty sneakers like she’s a small child. “I have a question for you, which you do not have to answer. I should point out though, that if you don’t answer, it’s sort of like you’re answering anyhow, you know?”

 

“ _What_?” Steve asks, exasperated. Natasha has mastered the art of irritation so well, sometimes being around her feels like being back in the orphanage around the six-year-olds.

 

She smirks, so satisfied that he knows he’s given her exactly the response she wanted. The smile twists into something even more evil when she asks,

 

“Was that your first kiss since 1945?”

 

“Was it _that_ bad?” Steve asks, dismayed despite himself.

 

“I didn’t say that,” Natasha says, soothingly. She sounds like Christmas has come early.

 

“It sounds like you’re saying that,” Steve says.

 

She actually chuckles this time.

 

“I’m just saying, if you’re nervous about taking me up on my dating suggestions because of the whole kissing thing, I just think you should know that it’s okay, Steve. No one expects you to have mastered the technique after such a long time out of commission. We _all_ need practise.”

 

“You’re a terrible person,” Steve says, and Natasha chuckles again.

 

He likes the way it sounds. He also likes how relaxed he feels, talking to her right now. It’s like what happened to Fury has changed the dimensions of their friendship. Trusting Natasha now doesn’t seem as hard as it did 24 hours ago, and who knows, maybe now is as good a time as any to test out that growing trust. Between this and his conversation with Sam, Steve is actually starting to feel comfortable in his own skin again.

 

“You know,” he says. “I’m 95, not dead. I’ve had plenty of practise.”

 

“Right,” Natasha says, placatingly. “Steve Rogers: lady’s man. Think that’s the title of your official biography.”

 

“Is it?” Steve says, nodding slowly, like he’s mulling it over. “I don’t think I’d go _that_ far. Never did much practising with the _dames_.”

 

There’s a very long, very startled pause from the passenger seat before Natasha cautiously asks,

 

“Did Captain America just out himself to me?”

 

Steve sighs in frustration,

 

“Look,” he says. “I know that my inability to cope with this century is the big joke, ha ha, but I _really_ have trouble with all the gay idioms, they’ve just changed _so much_. We didn’t even use the word _gay_ like this and – “

 

“I know,” Natasha interrupts. “I watched that interview where you took the reporter to task for his manners. It was adorable, but not really what I want to talk about right now. Steve, did you sleep with men?”

 

“Well,” Steve hedges. “Mostly just with one. And that wasn’t really why we were… I don’t understand why everyone today thinks about sex first when they’re talking about sexual orientation, either.”

 

“So you mean that it wasn’t just sex,” Natasha guesses. “You were in love.”

 

She doesn’t say Bucky’s name out loud like Sam did. Steve isn’t sure if she’s just saving him from having to say it, or if she doesn’t know to ask. He guesses it must be the former, because it doesn’t strike him as likely that Natasha wouldn’t have inspected every aspect of his file with a fine-tooth comb.

 

“I was in love,” he confirms.

 

“And now he’s dead,” Natasha says, almost cruelly, except for the subtle note of sadness in her voice when she says it.

 

“Now he’s dead,” Steve confirms again.

 

There’s another long pause before Natasha speaks, in a much smaller voice.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “For the stuff with the girls, too. You just seemed lonely. I thought…”

 

She trails off, and Steve glances over to see her staring at her feet, fiddling with her necklace.

 

“It’s okay,” Steve says, because it is. “I’m not used to really talking to people about it, so it’s not like you knew.”

 

“I suspected,” she admits. “I couldn’t get a read on you. You don’t seem interested in anything.”

 

“I guess I’m not,” Steve shrugs. “I never have been. I only ever cared about him.”

 

“Ever think you might want to try to find that again?” Natasha asks.

 

Steve makes a face.

 

“It’s sort of hard to find someone who has shared life experience, you know?”

 

“You could invent shared life experience,” Natasha offers. “It’s what I do.”

 

“That doesn’t sound like a good way to take care of the whole lonely thing,” Steve says. “Seems like a hard way to live.”

 

It’s Natasha’s turn to shrug now.

 

“And a good way not to die,” she says. “Besides, sometimes it works. Sometimes you come up with something that suits you so well, it feels more real than who you really are. It’s nice. Rare, but nice.”

 

“It’s kind of hard to trust someone when you don’t know who that someone really is,” Steve points out.

 

“I’m aware,” Natasha says, dryly. “Even _I_ don’t trust myself.”

 

“Does anyone?” Steve asks. He’s worried that it sounds spiteful, but he doesn’t mean it to be. He’s never seen this side of Natasha before. She’s never given him this much to work with.

 

“Maybe Fury did, before,” Natasha says, musing. “I think Clint does. A very long time ago, the Winter Soldier did, too.”

 

Steve raises an eyebrow at that.

 

“Really?” He says. “I was under the impression that he didn’t even tell you his name.”

 

“He doesn’t have a name,” Natasha says. “If he ever did, it died a long time ago. The Soldier is a husk of a man, Steve. But he was a good man, whoever he was. For a brief, happy window of time, he took care of me. I never had a childhood. The way I was treated, and the things they had me do… I was trained out of my childhood at a very young age. But when he was there, training with me, and working with me? It felt like having a family.”

 

“And then he tried to kill you,” Steve says, and he can _feel_ the distress radiating off of Natasha.

 

“It had been years since I’d last seen him,” She says, sounding like she hates herself for hoping, but she can’t help it. “Once I thought he would have turned against whoever held his leash before he would ever hurt me, but… maybe he just didn’t recognize me. It had been _years_.”

 

“Okay,” Steve says, gently. “Okay. We’ll find out. We’ll get answers for you.”

 

There’s another long pause before she says,

 

“Thank you.”

 

And then,

 

“Who do _you_ want me to be, Steve?”

 

“How about a friend?” Steve asks.

 

Her laugh is sad again, but happy at the same time, somehow.

 

“I think there’s a chance you’re in the wrong business, Rogers.”

 

***

 

About halfway to Wheaton, Natasha reaches into her shirt and pulls an analog police scanner out of her bra with an,

 

“Oh! I was wondering what had happened to that.”

 

This leads to a conversation-slash-argument that lasts almost 40 minutes about how someone could possibly lose a police scanner in their _cleavage_ and no, I could _not_ lose spy equipment in the folds of my man breasts, dammit Natasha stop calling them that. When they finally lose steam and Natasha turns the thing on, she goes from station to station, listening for any suspicious activity, and occasionally snickering at the odder dispatches.

 

She picks up the signals from Kearney just in time to hear dispatch send out a 10-27 for a 2400 in progress at the local cemetery.

 

“Ew,” Natasha says, making a face. At Steve’s questioning glance, she clarifies. “If they’re talking in code about something at a cemetery, it probably means they’re trying to avoid anyone local overhearing and freaking out. I bet you anything something nasty is happening right now.”

 

“Proceed with caution. Suspect is likely on some kind of drug and is agitated and dangerous. We’re getting some odd eye-witness reports for this one, and we aren’t sure what you’ll find. Don’t go in without back-up. Over.”

 

When the deputy asks for more information, the dispatcher hesitates, like they’re worried about going into too much detail before finally sighing and saying,

 

“The groundskeeper reported seeing a man use a metal gauntlet to punch a hole through one of the gravestones.”

 

Natasha switches the radio off and they both drive in silence for a long period of time. Finally, Natasha says,

 

“Kearney’s an hour out of our way. Detour?”

 

***

 

At first, Steve had been worried that local law enforcement and the groundskeeper would be uncooperative, since legally neither Steve nor Natasha have a right to be there. He asks her if she has any fake IDs that they can use to pose as non-SHIELD government agents and she gives him the most condescending, pitying look he’s ever seen before asking if this means he’s stumbled across the James Bond franchise.

 

“Honestly Steve,” she says. “Just grab the shield and come on. This isn’t New York, people won’t demand to see your driver’s licence before they’ll believe you’re Captain America.”

 

She’s right of course, and the awed deputies are more than happy to let the two of them poke around after they’ve explained that they think this could be “tied to a matter of national importance.” There is a lot to look at, and none of it is pleasant. It’s been some time since Steve has seen so many scattered body parts strewn around like, well, a war zone. At least here they are fortunate enough to have only come from one person, and none of the parts are remotely fresh, although Steve is a little sickened at what a mostly decomposed person looks like, even with the embalming process. The groundskeeper’s casual comment of, “Could have been worse, I suppose. Least this one’s only mushy and not soupy” does _not_ help.

 

“Do you think there was something in the coffin?” He hazards, looking into the hole in the ground curiously.

 

“If that’s the case, I don’t think he found it,” Natasha says, glancing around them.

 

Steve follows her gaze, and she has a point. The coffin has been destroyed and the corpse’s funeral best torn to shreds. Hell, the _corpse_ has been torn to shreds with a thoroughness that strikes Steve as suspicious. Surely tearing off limbs and pulling apart the remains of the torso was excessive. The officers still haven’t found all the ribs.

 

“It’s almost as if he was looking for something _inside_ the body,” Steve says.

 

“No, I don’t think so,” Natasha says. “This feels angry to me.”

 

“Could be,” Steve says. “It would fit with the witness statements and the destroyed tombstone. Not to mention _that_.”

 

He point to a small cluster of officers a few rows down as they gingerly try to remove a very decomposed head from where it has literally been mounted to a pike.

 

“Who do you think he was leaving a message to?”

 

“The Winter Soldier doesn’t leave messages,” Natasha says, helplessly. “He does what he’s told. Something’s not right here. I don’t know, I think…”

 

She trails off and her face is conflicted before she finally says,

 

“I think he’s in trouble. Like he’s gone off the rails. I told you he was a husk, right? That’s because they made him that.”

 

“They?” Steve questions. Natasha shrugs.

 

“I always thought it was the Red Room – the KGB offshoot that recruited me, but they’ve been out of commission for years. No one knows who he’s working for anymore.”

 

“I don’t think I know where you’re going with this,” Steve says cautiously.

 

“They made him a machine,” Natasha says. “But they couldn’t make him _stay_ a machine. There was a rumour that he never got older because they couldn’t let him stay awake long enough. If they left him up too long, he would disappear and start to act like he was a real person. You’d think that would be a good thing, but it was disturbing, to say the least. He didn’t like it.”

 

“You saw it happen?” Steve asks.

 

Natasha nods.

 

“One time he took me along with him. I couldn’t have been ten years old yet. He told me it was like going on vacation.”

 

“What did you do?” Steve asks.

 

Natasha smiles when she answers, which is the worst part. Like there’s a part of her that thinks it’s a fond memory.

 

“We snuck into a nursing home, and we killed one of the patients.”

 

“Excuse me?” Steve says.

 

“It was a nasty way to go,” Natasha says. “I’d never seen him that upset before. He didn’t show much in the way of emotions. For a long time I didn’t think he had any, that they had all been trained out of him. But when we found that old man, and he was _angry_. It was about revenge, I’m sure of that, but I don’t think _he_ knew why he was doing it. I don’t think he actually remembered why he wanted to do it, he just did it.”

 

“How did you kill him? The old man, I mean,” Steve asks

 

Natasha shakes her head, still smiling.

 

“I know you, Steve,” she says. “I would like you to be able to look me in the eye after today, so I’m afraid that’s all you’ll be getting out of me.”

 

“Why do you want to try to reason with this man again?” Steve asks.

 

“Because Clint once tried to reason with me,” Natasha says, calmly.

 

“You were a small child when someone forced you to start working for them,” Steve says. “This guy sounds like he was already well on his way to becoming a thug before anyone laid a hand on him.”

 

Natasha shrugs.

 

“He tried to save me from the Red Room. That was why he took me with him in the first place.”

 

“I thought he didn’t have emotions,” Steve says. “Why would he try to save you, or make you feel like he was family for that matter, if he didn’t feel anything for you?”

 

“He told me he had to, like someone had given him the order,” Natasha says. “And he was always kind to me, Steve. He was always protective. He just didn’t seem to realize it, like there was someone stuck in there with him, telling him what to do. I’ve always thought that was what was left of the man he used to be. It was why I was happy to help; the man who kept trying to steal back the Soldier wanted the old man dead, so there must have been a good reason.”

 

She sighs, and Steve gets the distinct impression that she’s annoyed by how much she has to assume about the Soldier, and how little she actually _knows_.

 

“Until Barton showed up, the Winter Soldier was the only friend I had ever had, no matter how unconventional the relationship was. That means something to me, Rogers. _He_ means something to me.”

 

Steve thinks it’s a damned flimsy excuse, but he doesn’t push it, either. There’s something vulnerable in Natasha’s expression, and the way she’s holding herself. He knows sharing time is over – can see her mentally pull herself out of the memories she’s at risk of becoming lost in, but he can also see how hard it’s been for her to say this much, so he lets it lie for the time being. Instead, he goes to take a closer look at what’s left of the tombstone. It’s mostly a pile of small rocks now, but a few smooth surfaces are left. There’s only one with any legible letters on it:

 

“URGES

EST

19--”

 

Steve cocks his head a little to the side as he stares, trying to think of first names that have the word “urges” hidden in it. Only one – uncommon – possibility comes to mind, and he feels a little sick before he sternly tells to stop being melodramatic. The stone isn’t all _that_ old, for one thing. For another, Kearney isn’t exactly Brooklyn adjacent. He tries not to think about how the date looks like it has what could be a “0” for the decade.

 

“Do we have any idea whose grave this was?” He asks. “Some of the stones surrounding the grave are a little newer. I’m sorry Natasha, I still think this is a message. Maybe this is someone who the Soldier dealt with before. An old handler maybe, or the relative of a former victim?”

 

“The Soldier didn’t think in terms of handlers and victims, Steve,” Natasha says, patiently. “He thought about jobs, not people.”

 

“And yet you sounded upset when you told me that he didn’t remember who you were the last time you saw him,” Steve says.

 

“That’s different,” Natasha says, quietly.

 

“Because you were family?” Steve asks, and Natasha doesn’t say anything at all. Finally he just repeats, “Do we know who the grave belonged to?”

 

“Yeah,” says Natasha, finally snapping out of it long enough to look at the records the groundskeeper gave her earlier, even though Steve knows she must have them memorized by now. “A dead end from the looks of things. Cemetery records show the body has been interred here for over fifteen years. If the Winter Soldier had been looking for an old comrade he would have found him long before now.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “But you yourself said he doesn’t get out much, and he killed a geriatric, for god’s sake. Maybe it takes him a while to track down each target. Do you have a name in that file?”

 

Natasha gives him an unimpressed look and sighs heavily before she reads,

 

“Stoller. The guy’s name was Burgess Stoller, and because I’m not an infant, I already asked about his background when you were poking around in the coffin remains. The local paper keeps all the obits in an archive, and it turns out this guy was an ordinary small town government paper pusher who died peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by friends and family.”

 

Steve sits down hard on the grass and works to keep his breathing level. He doesn’t take his eyes off the pieces of rubble in front of him.

 

“Cap?” Natasha asks, and he hears her take a step closer. “You okay?”

 

“Just thinking,” he says, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Trying to see a connection.”

 

Because this can’t be a message for him. It _can’t_. It can’t serve as a warning or a threat or even a sick fucked-up greeting of some sort because he’s the only one who knows. He’s the only one left who knows. Unless Dr. Bowers _did_ tell someone about the secret past of Captain America? Or maybe it’s not about him at all. Maybe Stoller did more than just look the other way after Steve and Bucky left. Natasha said before that the Soldier didn’t show up until the 60s – if Stoller had still worked at the school in the 50s, maybe the man was a victim of Barry’s School for Boys before he became a machine. Maybe Steve has more in common with the Winter Soldier than he thought. He stands abruptly, brushing off his pants as he walks back to the truck.

 

“We should get going,” he says. “We won’t find anything else here.”

 

“Anything you’d like to share with the class, Rogers?” Natasha calls out after him sarcastically, and Steve wants to shake his head in defeat as he hears the edge in her voice, feels her walls going back up and locking into place to keep pace with his own.

 

“Just that we won’t be able to find out anything else about this until we’re in a safe place where we can do some real research,” Steve says, equal parts proud and horrified at how easily the lie comes to him. “If Stoller’s not the key to what happened here, maybe there’s someone else buried here that the Soldier was looking for, but we need to get SHIELD off our backs before we can deal with any of it. We need to sort out Wheaton before we sort out the Winter Soldier.”

 

***

 

_They’re too far behind enemy lines to risk a fire, and everyone is huddled close together for warmth. Soon they’ll turn in and try to get some sleep before they need to be up again at dawn. Steve is on first watch so he’s not in his sleeping bag like the others, he’ll leave and patrol the area soon, but for now he’s silent. They all are, staring up at the night sky, listening for gunfire that’s too far away to hear anyhow, trying not to think about how they’ll spend yet another tempting death come morning. In the silence of the forest, Jones’ quiet voice seems loud when he asks,_

_“Any of you guys ever think about the first thing you’ll do? After the war, I mean?”_

_Everyone is quiet for a moment, thinking, and then Falsworth pipes up,_

_“I’m just trying to make it to the end of the war, to be completely honest.”_

_“Yeah,” Morita says. “I don’t like thinking about after. Feels like tempting fate, you know?”_

_He pauses, and the air is tense with whatever it is he wants to add before he finally admits,_

_“I_ would _like to go back to Poston. Make sure those idiots have let my folks out of that stupid camp.”_

_There’s a murmur of commiseration from the other Commandos. Morita doesn’t talk about it a lot, but they all know about it. Technically, his parents are allowed to go home any time they want, but Morita’s mom doesn’t get around too easily, and his family is effectively stranded until someone bothers to help them relocate. Steve has actually asked around to see if there’s any way to get some help, what with their son being such an exemplary citizen and a national hero and all. So far, no one has budged, too busy pretending they’ve got their hands full holding down the homefront and it really gets under Steve’s skin, that no one cares about what Morita is doing for them._

_It’s gotten worse now that they’re finding and liberating the odd PoW camp. They deal exclusively with HYDRA bases, but there have been reports about other camps, places like Majdanek. No one is really sure what is happening in German-occupied Europe right now, but everyone is quickly coming to the conclusion that it’s worse than anything they were expecting. You can’t fault Morita for wanting his family far away from any place where folks have been kept based on what race they are._

_There’s a natural lull in the conversation and then,_

_“Dad died before the fighting started,” Jones says. “Ma works hard to keep the house, but it’s hard for her. She’s got three little kids to feed, and there aren’t a lot of places that will hire ladies in that town, not even with the war on. She won’t accept any pay from me, but I’ve been saving it up. Wanna pay off the rest of the mortgage on her house. Wanna be alive so I can tell her about it in person, too.”_

_“Always wanted to start up a hot dog stand back in Boston,” Dum Dum muses. “I don’t know, just always thought that would be such a great life: meeting people, feeding them, giving out free meals to hungry kids.”_

_Falsworth makes an “Awww” sound and Dugan cusses at him loudly while everyone else laughs a little before the heavy mood resettles over them._

_They all know what Dernier will say – it’s been a recurring topic of conversation for over half a year now, ever since they heard the first reports – but they all let him speak anyway._

_“Mognéville,” he grits out. “I’m going to go there and look at what is left. Find my sister’s home. Then I will find each and every man who had a hand in her death, and kill them with my bare hands.”_

_Dernier hadn’t said a word for weeks after the reports of retaliatory mass murders throughout the French countryside reached them. He doesn’t claim to have been close to his older sister – from what Steve can sort out Dernier was adamantly opposed to her marrying someone so actively involved in the French Resistance. She had laughed at him and called him a hypocrite. They hadn’t spoken since the wedding, and Dernier had taken the news of what had happened to the town_ hard _. Women hadn’t been targeted, but they hadn’t been spared either, and no one has heard from his sister since it happened. There’s still hope, but it’s not hope that anyone is willing to offer Dernier. There’s too great a chance that she’s gone._

_“The hot dog stand can wait,” Dum Dum says into the darkness. “You want anyone to help when you kill those sons of bitches, Dernier, you just say the word.”_

_Other voices ring out in agreement, even if deep down they all know that they are too recognisable to be able to get away with going on a murder spree after the war is over. Still, it’s nice to think that they can, and since they_ are _so noticeable, there’s nothing to stop them from rounding up a few war criminals and leaning on the necessary international powers to bring them to_ lawful _justice, when all is said and done._

_Everyone is quiet again, and then just as Steve is standing up, Dernier manages,_

_“_ Capitaine _? Leaving before you tell us your plans?”_

_It’s a desperate bid to change the subject to something with less of a sting, and Jones has leapt on it before Steve even has a chance._

_“Come off it, Dernier,” he says. “It’s pretty obvious what the Cap’s post-war dreams are.”_

_“I suppose so,” Dernier chuckles, weakly._

_“Would someone care to let_ me _in on them?” Steve asks, uncertainly. Bucky just groans. Whatever this is about, it’s obviously been a frequent topic of conversation. A topic in conversations that he_ hasn’t _been a part of._

_“It involves marching laying a kiss right on your sweetheart’s mouth,” Dum Dum explains, patiently. “Probably before you’ve even had a chance to clean the Nazi blood and guts off your uniform, you big sap.”_

_“It does?” Steve asks, curiously, sitting back down on the ground. “Won’t I at least take a shower or put on a change of clothes before I head back to London? I mean, I’m sure my girl’s seen her share of Nazi gore, but we aren’t usually standing next to each other when it happens.”_

_“Steve,” Bucky groans again, and Steve feels his head slump against the side of Steve’s leg in frustration. “They aren’t talking about Peggy.”_

_“Do you think we’re idiots, Captain?” Falsworth asks, cheerfully. “None of us believe for a minute that you cuddle up that close to Sergeant Barnes each night for_ warmth _.”_

_Steve is absolutely dumbstruck, briefly noting the way Bucky’s laughter makes his own body shake, before he manages to say,_

_“I thought… I thought there was a code or something. That we didn’t talk about, you know… any port in a storm.”_

_“Oh Rogers,” Jones says, pityingly. “You’re not going to try to use ‘just a couple of lonely soldiers’ as an excuse, are you?”_

_“We… shouldn’t be talking about this?” Steve says, determined to keep trying._

_“People are dying out there,” Morita says, softly. “I get that someone safe at home might say the two of you ought to be arrested, but damn, Sarge shot a man in the back of the head for me today, two seconds before the German bastard tried to open fire on me. I really am_ not _concerned about how he’s making time with our captain on the sly.”_

_Steve is thankful for the darkness so no one can see him blushing, but he can’t keep the grin out of his voice when he says,_

_“Understood. I really appreciate it, all of you. In fact, what would you think if I came over and laid one on each and every one of you, right now? You know, to show my gratitude.”_

_“Then I don’t care how fast you heal,” Morita says calmly, “you’re gonna be sporting a shiner that lasts you a week.”_

_There’s more chuckling from everyone around him, and Steve feels incredible, despite his nerves over tomorrow._

_“When_ I _get back home,” Bucky says, once the laughing has died down a little. “I plan on dragging my superior officer back to our old haunts in Brooklyn. Now that we’re big important war heroes, I can think of a few social calls I’d like to make. What do you think, Stevie? Maybe after we’ve kicked a few heads in with Dernier, it’s time to kick a few more in back in New York?”_

_“I think I’d be fine with that,” Steve says, hearing the promise in Bucky’s words; offering a promise of his own. “Thinking of tearing a certain reform school apart, brick-by-brick, too.”_

_“Well, let’s make a date of it,” Bucky says, pleasantly._

_“You know,” Falsworth says, a few moments later. “We_ can _still hear the two of you. Captain, maybe you could stop desecrating the uniform and start watching our backs?”_

_Steve is still chuckling when he finally stops kissing Bucky and gets up to start the first of his patrols around the camp._

***

 

He stands a little straighter when he walks back into the base camp, even though they’re breaking in in the middle of the night and the place is in ruins. Some things just stay with you over the years, and as soon as he walks through that gate Steve can’t shake the feeling that he is still 95 pounds and desperate to prove himself. Still, it feels a little bit like coming home again, despite all that. He hasn’t been to many places since waking up where time has stood so still. It’s nice being somewhere that’s at least a little closer to being on the same page as him.

 

When they find the hidden offices, it feels like walking onto an abandoned movie set, and when he sees the old photographs of familiar faces hanging on the wall, it feels like the movie is about him.

 

“That’s Stark’s father,” Natasha says, coming to stand next to him. “I can see the resemblance.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, softly.

 

“Who’s the girl?” She asks, hunching in on herself a little when Steve turns to look at her incredulously. “ _What_?”

 

“Don’t you recognize her?” Steve asks.

 

“Why on earth would I recognize her?” Natasha asks, defensively.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “From my file, from a history class, a documentary, from a Welcome to SHIELD pamphlet detailing the history of the agency?”

 

“Okay first of all,” Natasha says, waving a finger testily in his face. “They never gave me a pamphlet they just pulled me out of my holding cell and started sending me on missions. Second, they never put pictures in your file, I assumed because all of your friends were dead, and third, why the _hell_ would I learn about the important people in _your_ life in a history class when I was a _Russian. Child. Spy?_ ”

 

She jabs him in the chest with every word at the end and Steve raises his hands in surrender.

 

“Fine,” he says. “I get it.”

 

It’s only partially true, because it only partially makes sense, and something in Natasha’s nervous frustration makes him think that she is starting to feel the same way. Every file he got about his fellow Avengers came stuffed to the brim with archived footage and pictures and documents. He’s seen so many documentaries about him since he’s come back, he _knows_ finding pictures for that file would have been as simple as typing a search into Google. The unsettled look on her face hints that she’s thinking the same thing, and maybe wondering why she never thought about looking into his past any further.

 

He wants to only focus on the fact that if she doesn’t know who Peggy is, and that it means she couldn’t possibly be acting like Peggy to ingratiate herself into his good graces. He wants to let himself smile and bask in the fact that when Natasha gives off an air of trying too hard to make him like her, she’s doing it without any ulterior professional motives. He wants to pretend that the only thing that has just happened, is he’s found someone else at SHIELD as lonely as he is, but he can’t. The longer they stare at each other, the twitchier Natasha is getting.

 

She’s starting to look hunted, like her casual acceptance of his blank file and her lack of curiosity over it isn’t natural, like she’s been doing things against her will, even if she didn’t realize it until a minute ago. She looks like Steve feels when he wakes up after dreaming about Barry’s School, or the way Bucky used to look when he had nightmares about being experimented on in a HYDRA lab. He doesn’t understand what is happening, but he knows that whatever it is, it is _very_ wrong.

 

Watching her quietly break to pieces in front of him is so unsettling that it takes far longer than it should for him to notice the faint breeze blowing across his face. He looks around until he catches sight of the cobwebs on one of the bookshelves across from them swaying faintly in the air. He gently moves Natasha to one side and she shakes out of her panic surprisingly quickly once she sees what he’s looking at, like she’s desperate to think about something else. The bookshelf swings open and they find themselves staring at an old hidden elevator. Whatever is in the basement of this place, someone _really_ wanted to keep it hidden. So far as Steve is concerned, that’s all the invitation they need.


	7. Vexed to Nightmare, Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this chapter, everyone! It probably won't be the last one - I have a lot of travelling scheduled this month, and recently I've been in thrown unexpectedly into big family... well, let's call it inevitable family drama. Anyhow, the point is, my writing time is a little iffy these days, and it's taking longer than I'd like to finish each chapter. Don't worry if you see longer than usual delays in this story, though. I promise it is not going to be abandoned!
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Remember all that revenge I keep talking about? Are you getting impatient to see it? I HAVE GOOD NEWS FOR YOU, FRIENDS. :D 
> 
> The next couple chapters are bouncing back and forth between movie events, and brief moments in the Winter Soldier's career, so the PoV jumps back and forth, as does the timeline. Pay attention to the section headings when they show up! The violence amps up in this chapter, and kind of in the Winter Soldier's head as well. That poor guy is really fucked up, everyone, and it comes across more than I thought it would back when I first started writing this. There are also very, very brief references to Natasha's abusive, messed up childhood (still a quasi hybrid version of her known comic and movie backstories), which will be expanded upon a little more in the next chapter. It's by no means graphic in either chapter, but yeah. It's in there.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments about this story, and of course thanks to my beta, [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness).

 

 

 

_ New York City, 1968 _

_The asset’s missions rarely take him to New York. He goes everywhere – all over the world, but somehow New York City never requires the Soldier’s special care. The missions never start here, at any rate, and when they lead him here, he is never allowed to stay for long, especially if he starts to pursue targets in certain boroughs. He does not question why this is, it simply is._

_(He questioned it once, quietly and to himself. “It scares them when you get close to who you were supposed to be,” is the ominous answer he gets back from the darker corners of his mind. “It makes a liability out of their perfect weapon. HYDRA has no use for broken things.”)_

_The target knows her time is running out – knows HYDRA, and knows that she has been caught trying to sell its secrets to the FBI. She also seems to know the Winter Soldier. He listens to her crying in a phone booth on the edge of Queens as she tries to explain to her contact that she never meant to hurt anyone, that she only wanted to help and that what was happening was wrong. She claims she didn’t understand what she was helping to create until it was too late. She says she doesn’t want to die._

_The asset keeps his eyes on her as he strides up to her and watches her entire body twitch violently as her face crumples and she starts to sob harder, pleading, talking to him like she knows him. Like they have a history. He doesn’t recognize her face as he shoves the gun up under her chin and pulls the trigger._

_The phone swings wildly as her body crumples to the ground, the enclosed booth containing the spray of blood. He turns and walks away, the tunnel vision he has had ever since he caught her trail in Manhattan eases. Around him people are screaming and running. They notice the dead woman but the Soldier is good at what he does, and walking away unnoticed is often a part of that. His small pistol (she was only a scientist; didn’t require a large weapon), is hidden in the inner pocket of his coat. His metal hand is covered in leather gloves that don’t stand out from anyone else’s in the brisk fall weather._

_Then the Soldier sees_ him. _For a moment, everything stops._

_The world around him fades away again, like he’s just been presented with another mission. He looks at the man who points and panics with the others and he knows him. The asset has never known_ anyone _before this moment. He is a blank slate, he is_ supposed _to be a blank slate. But he knows this man, although he doesn’t know why. Something locked up deep inside of him forces its way to the surface, weak but insistent: anger._

_It’s so detached from the Soldier and his mission he barely notices it at first. It’s not a feeling he’s ever experienced, not that he’s aware of, but somehow he recognizes it for what it is. The man is running now, face white, mouth open in fear as he looks around wildly, like a crazed shooter might randomly come after him next. Like he could be the next target, and suddenly, that tiny broken off piece of him that produced the anger is latching onto that thought, like it is a very good idea._

_He’s unfamiliar with this as well – this act of experiencing an unpleasant feeling and taking action to deal with it. It makes his body hum, but not with pleasure. He feels purpose. His handlers always tell him he has a purpose, that he will shape the future and that his sacrifices will make him a hero. The Soldier never feels like a hero, and he never feels the purpose and urgency that his handlers try to impress on him. He feels nothing. Their tasks are meaningless and_ he _is meaningless and somehow he knows that if he ever listened to what they told him, if he ever thought about the words said to him, it wouldn’t make what he does any easier. It would make it harder. It would make it a job, not a task, and the Soldier doesn’t want anything that will give him purpose. Not if it comes from the people who give him his orders._

_This purpose seems different; it feels older than anything that has been said to him by the men who put him into the chair. It’s like it comes from someplace inside of him, although he doesn’t recognize the source as himself. All he knows, as he silently glides after the frightened man, is that someone, somewhere made a promise, and this is something he needs to do._

_Maybe he’s not doing the right thing, exactly, maybe he was only meant to talk, or accuse, or give the frightened man to someone else to hurt. The Soldier doesn’t know, and the Soldier doesn’t care. He knows what he is good at; he knows what he has been programmed to do, and that is what he does now._

_The man has slowed down ahead of him now; he is breathing freer, and he runs a hand over his face, like he has dodged some sort of bullet. The tension has all bled from his shoulders when the asset reaches him and pulls him into the nearest alley with a firm hand on the back of his neck. The man is too surprised to struggle._

_It’s over quickly, but it’s not a clean kill, not what the Soldier prefers. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just put a bullet into the man right away, why he doesn’t minimize the chance he’ll be seen. Instead he slams the man’s face into the brick wall repeatedly, listening to the crunch of cartilage and bone and the wet pained gasps of the man as his airways fill with blood. The man flails in desperation, and his tortured cries finally cause the Soldier to stop dragging it out. He snaps the man’s neck with his metal hand and for a second time that day, he watches a lifeless body hit the ground at his feet. He tries to pretend he isn’t uneasy about what he’s just done._

_He reaches into the man’s back pocket and pulls out the wallet he finds there. He takes the money, glancing briefly at the name written on the licence he finds (Curtis), and then he throws the wallet into a nearby dumpster. Later on, just before his handler meets him at their planned rendezvous, he drops the money into the nearly empty tin of a frail old woman begging for change. She doesn’t see who leaves it, but he hears the cry of surprise when she notices how much money is now in her possession._

_The broken off, detached piece of him flares up warmly for a second in alien satisfaction, and then it goes back to sleep. By the time the asset is collected and on his way back to cryo, he barely remembers the sensation at all._

***

 

Natasha’s pulse is weak but steady, and Steve can feel her hand clutching at his back as he carries her out of the smoking debris that once was a building. He never realized how small it was before now. He’s worried that she’s going to stop breathing, and the thought terrifies him because there are helicopters overhead and he can hear SHIELD agents off in the distance shouting at each other and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop to give any first aid. But after several tense minutes, she starts to support her own head and she’s looking around her, occasionally tugging at him to direct him away from patrolling agents if she notices them before he does. By the time he’s found another car with an unlocked door that he can hotwire, she’s walking, although she does still need to use him as a crutch.

 

“We need to go back to D.C.,” she tells him, grimly. “We need to find the heart of this and we need to cut it out.”

 

Steve couldn’t agree more, but he can’t help but notice that Natasha is a bit distracted. He’s not sure if it’s because of her injuries or what they’ve found out about her mentor.

 

“How are you dealing with what Zola said about the Winter Soldier?” He asks her. “Is it going to be a problem?”

 

“It’s already a very big problem,” Natasha says. She won’t look his direction.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, wincing at how inadequate it sounds.

 

“Well, one more name I get to cross off the Christmas card list, I suppose,” she says. Her words are still slurring slightly, but she pushes through it until her voice sounds almost light-hearted. “That’s what I get for going and getting attached to a deranged killer.”

 

“Will you be able to focus on taking down Project Insight?” Steve asks. “Is this going to get in the way?”

 

“Seriously, Rogers?” Natasha looks incredulous when she finally turns to look at him. “You’re acting like I’ve never been on an emotionally compromising op before. I’ll be fine.”

 

The slur is gone completely now.

 

“You sound like you’re rallying,” he tells her. “I was worried about you back there. Your head must be harder than I thought.”

 

Natasha laughs.

 

“Hardest in the business, Rogers,” she says. “Clint says concussions roll off me like water off a duck.”

 

She rummages around in the glove compartment briefly before adding,

 

“It would be nice if this person kept Aspirin on hand, though.”

 

After another minute, she says,

 

“Where to now? We’ll need a safe place to hole up in, where we can set up a base of operations. It needs to be someplace SHIELD isn’t.”

 

“I think I have an idea,” Steve says.

 

***

 

_ Detroit, 1972 _

_He turns the television on loudly, seconds before he slits the sleeping man’s throat. It’s a nice hotel, but it takes an awful lot to cover the sound of a person fighting for his life. He lets it play loudly even after he’s sure the man is dead, only for a few seconds longer, before he turns it down to a reasonable volume. It makes it sound like there’s an insomniac in the room who’s sleepily turned on the television and has to fumble for the volume before finding the knob._

_He lets the box play while he cleans the room of all traces of himself, but only to maintain the illusion that the person who paid for this room is still alive. He isn’t entirely certain he’s ever watched a television before. At any rate, he isn’t interested in what is on it. Or he isn’t until he hears the anchorman say something about Barry’s School for Boys. The asset looks up, staring hard at the monitor._

_The name doesn’t exactly sound familiar, but his body responds to it like it’s spent a lifetime paying attention when those words are said. Unconsciously he feels his body tense, like there’s trouble coming._

_The report is about a rundown reform school in New York City, one of the most ubiquitous inner-city detention centres in history, says the reporter. Until now._

_“After years of complaints and rumours dating back to before World War II, Barry’s School for Boys closed its doors for good today. Barry’s School gained a rather infamous reputation over the years, for routinely failing inspections and being written up multiple times for human rights violations. It was only this year that the letter writing campaign of families of missing or dead students led to results._

_“So why exactly has it taken so long to shut it down? Authorities say any complaints levied against the school have been properly addressed and all offenses appropriately corrected. In other words, for all the school’s flaws, it has been equally good at fixing them. Only with the recent discovery of falsified records regarding the disappearance of some of these missing children has there been evidence that these violations are endangering youths. Some former students, however, disagree.”_

_The image cuts away to an annoyed middle-aged man shaking his head at an unheard question from a reporter._

_“I went to that place in the middle of the Depression,” the man (name on the screen says Jack Preston) says. “And I paid attention to it after I got out, too. What got them shut down today is the same as what was happening back then. No boy got sent to Barry’s who was better for his time there. Only reason it wasn’t shut down years ago is no one in charge wanted to admit they’d made a mistake building it in the first place.”_

_“Did you ever consider asking for help or alerting authorities of the problem when you attended?” The reporter asks._

_Preston gives the reporter an unimpressed snort._

_“Not many reform school kids out there who’d be able to make someone believe their word over a government-sanctioned social worker. The ones who were capable of it were smart enough to run, if they didn’t disappear first, too.”_

_“What about when you were an adult?” The reporter asks. “Did you ever try to do anything then?”_

_“Cops don’t listen to you when you have an arrest record, either,” Preston says. “Those questions right there are sort of the problem, you know. You want a place like Barry’s to close when it starts causing problems, you have to be willing to put a little trust in folks most of you have already written off.”_

_The camera cuts back to the reporter who launches into some explanation of what will happen to students currently attending the school, but the asset is no longer listening. As he carefully resheaths his knife, a face comes to mind, unbidden. It’s a man with dull brown hair and green eyes, and a sneering expression on his face. The Soldier thinks about chains, but he doesn’t know why._

_“Eckert,” he says out loud to the corpse still on the bed. “Eckert.”_

_He doesn’t think he’s the one who said it, even though it came out of his mouth. He wants to pursue the name (he assumes it must be a name), to see if it matches the face in his head. He wants to see if he can make the stranger inside him speak again. He feels it’s important to hear what that voice might have to say._

_But then the window opens, and the asset’s team has come to help him dismember and dispose of the target. The next time the Soldier is left alone to think about the name and the man, he is back in the cryo chamber, and the cold is already eating through his body._

***

 

“I don’t know if this is a good plan,” Natasha says for about the tenth time, as they steal up to Sam’s front door. They’ve changed cars three times and dumped the last one about ten blocks away. Steve is going to have to send _a lot_ of apology cards when this is all over. Natasha says people don’t do things like that anymore. He carefully doesn’t admit that no one really did it in the 40s, either.

 

“This is a great plan,” he insists.

 

“When did you meet him again?” Natasha asks.

 

“Same time you did,” Steve shrugs. “About one conversation earlier.”

 

“And how does that make him an ideal ally in all of this?” Natasha asks.

 

“He’s a good listener,” Steve says. “And he _did_ say that if I ever needed anything, I should ask.”

 

“God,” Natasha says under her breath. “I really wish someone had told me Brooklyn was on another planet before I met you.”

 

Steve just rolls his eyes and knocks sharply on the door. Sam opens the door and stares at them, stunned, which, fair enough. They aren’t really looking their best right now.

 

“I’m really sorry about this,” Steve says. “But we need a place where we can lay low.”

 

“Everyone we know is trying to kill us,” Natasha adds, flatly.

 

It takes Sam another moment before he shakes himself out of it.

 

“Not everyone. Get in here.”

 

Natasha still doesn’t look remotely convinced, but she sighs and allows herself to be ushered inside.

 

***

 

_ Phoenix, 1975 _

_Sometimes the asset is given insufficient intel before an operation and he is forced to improvise. He is never pleased when this happens, prefers to be pointed at a target and let loose. To improvise beyond the anticipated parameters requires expended mental effort and thought; too much creative thinking unsettles the Soldier. The missions when the plans change are the missions when he sits shaking in the chair afterwards, agitated and asking questions about people and events he does not remember._

_The intel given for this particular mission is out of date, and he is forced to break into the records room of the Phoenix Police Department. As he rifles through the “ATH-ATO” processing records, the name “ATHERTON, Joseph” catches his eye. It’s not the name he’s looking for, but he stops to open the file all the same. He frowns at the picture of the boy, who can’t be much older than 14, and finds himself thinking that although the face is right, the age is wrong._

_The report is years old, from a night when he was brought in for assaulting his elderly father in a domestic dispute. He was kept in holding for about 8 hours at his parents’ request, before they declined to file charges. There is an addendum to the file from this February, indicating that the now 16-year-old has been listed as a runaway._

_The Soldier takes the file with him when he steals the information about the target that he came for in the first place. Before he goes looking for the target, he takes the time to find the boy. (It’s not hard; the Soldier has never run away, but he still knows the best places for a runaway to go to avoid being found.) He tracks the boy’s movements until he ends up at an apartment full of other teenagers who greet the boy like a friend when he steps inside. Only then does the asset go to the boy’s last listed address, and it feels strange to make sure someone has an alibi instead of trying to take one away from them. But it still feels like something he needs to do, and the Soldier has learned to trust his instincts._

_He incapacitates the woman who answers the door before she has a chance to see his face and walks with purpose through the spacious home until he finds the father. He is cowering in the closet of a now unused bedroom that once belonged to a teenage boy. In his hands he holds a gun in a manner that indicates he has never used it before._

_“You’ll shoot your own foot before you manage to shoot me,” he comments. “All that time you spent killing people slowly – did you really never once let them go quickly?”_

_The words have no context for him (he thinks this is the tiny piece of the man he once was speaking again, much stronger now than he has been in the past), but they mean something to the man who’s going to die. Tears start to fall down his face as he shakes his head over and over, like he’s trying to wake up._

_The asset surveys the shaking man for a moment longer before he starts to move again. He leans over the man and gracefully picks up the bat resting beside him. The man lets out a distraught sound which only gets louder when he drops the gun as he fumbles for the safety._

***

_When the Soldier eliminates the assigned target the next day it goes largely unnoticed by the papers. Something as mundane as a botched carjacking is a non-event when a man was just bludgeoned to death in his own home by a maniac the day before._

_“What took you so long?” Asks his handler when the asset walks into the arranged safe house, not looking up from the paper as he reads about the “unprecedented amount of brain matter” found on the closet walls and ceiling._

_“Misinformation,” is all the Soldier says as he sits on the bed and stares blankly at the wall in a desperate attempt to slow his thoughts._

 

***

 

“So let me see if I get this straight,” Sam says. “There is a massive government organization that was started by your old friends after the war. Its job is to defend civilians from shady top secret organizations and babysit superheroes, and it spent millions and millions of dollars trying to find you in the arctic. Now that it’s got you, it turns out it has been infiltrated by one of the shady top secret organizations it’s supposed to stop, and has started to try to kill off the Avengers with missiles. Starting with you two.”

 

“That is more or less correct,” says Natasha.

 

“Steve, you really know how to piss people off,” Sam sighs.

 

“It’s hardly my fault if I keep finding myself thrown in with corrupt institutions that need to be shut down,” Steve protests. “And anyhow, I can see what you’re thinking and this is nothing like when I was a kid.”

 

“No?” Sam asks.

 

“No,” Steve insists. “First of all, I have muscles now; second, this is not a reform school with a body count, it is a corrupt government-powered spy organization; third, I’m not going to fail this time; and fourth, I asked for help first, and I really think that’s going to give me an edge.”

 

“Steve,” Natasha says, exasperated. “You have not asked for help. I didn’t give you any choice, and all you’ve asked Sam for is the use of his living room.”

 

“Baby steps, Natasha,” Sam says. “I’m hoping that with a little coaching we can convince him to ask for a shower next.”

 

“Only if he asks after me,” Natasha mutters. “And by the way, may I?”

 

Sam directs her to the bathroom and she rolls her eyes at Steve before she walks out, even though Steve didn’t say anything. It doesn’t occur to him that he’s been talking to her like she knows much more than she actually does until he hears the water running.

 

***

 

_ Rostov, 1977 _

_Martin Eckert. The name comes to the Soldier unbidden as he trudges through the streets, ignoring the slow transformation from winter to spring all around him that keeps everyone else happy and inattentive. He doesn’t know why the name means something, but he has the dim impression that he had been trying to think of it a long time ago. He doesn’t understand, but he knows it is important._

_When he begins to remember more clearly, he stops searching for his target. It’s wrong to abandon his current mission, but he’s certain he was tasked with finding a Martin Eckert. The only reason he would ever remember any of his old targets is if he failed to take care of them. An incomplete mission is unacceptable. His job is to hold the line between order and chaos, and failure is unacceptable._

_It’s not hard to lose his handler. He’s given a lot of free reign during his missions, because they believe he never thinks of anything beyond what he is told to think about each time they wake him up and assign him a task. In the end, escaping the watchful eye of HYDRA is easier than stealing a ticket and boarding a plane._

***

_He doesn’t remember anything about his old mission, but he goes to America all the same, as though he has an internal compass with a needle pointing towards New York City. When he gets there he starts looking through phonebooks. The man he finally finds lives in a slum. His vacant, glassy eyes barely open when the Soldier breaks inside. Garbage and filth litter the small room._

_The asset is not programmed to ask questions, and yet despite this, as he looks at the man floundering and failing to rise to his feet, he wonders why he was ever tasked with this particular job. The man doesn’t seem important at all. He looks like the last person HYDRA would ever want to eliminate. He picks up a tarnished old knife he sees on the counter beside him anyhow. His orders don’t have to make sense to him._

_He dimly calls to mind memories of other missions where he’s started to follow the instruction of something inside of him; something that isn’t controlled by HYDRA. He wonders if that is what’s actually happening now, because when he looks at the disgusting mess in front of him, it feels like he_ wants _to hurt him. The violent urge sits inside him disagreeably._

_He’s not accustomed to wishing violence on anyone (he’s not accustomed to wanting anything) but his hands twitch with the impulse all the same and it feels uncontrolled and poisonous. He wants it to stop, so he swings the blade down again and again, ignoring its dullness and the screams of the man. He doesn’t stop when the man stops fighting, or when the life goes out of his eyes. He keeps going, waiting for the intolerable urge to go away. It doesn’t._

_Panic starts to take hold and crowds out the rage; the asset throws the knife to the other side of the room. His hands have started to shake and it feels like he’s lost someone, or maybe like_ he’s _the one who is missing. Something is very, very wrong, but he doesn’t know what it is. He wants to lash out and fight somebody, but there’s no one to tell him who he should be fighting. He screams wordlessly in his frustration and then, when nothing happens, he opens the door and runs instead._

***

 

_When HYDRA finally finds him days later, he is wandering through Brooklyn, shaking, crying, and beyond control. It’s as though he’s searching for someone, according to the men who survived to report back. It takes ten to bring him to the ground in an old abandoned building (it was an orphanage once), and the asset won’t report on what happened. No one can tell what went wrong. They find blood under his fingernails, and in his hair, but his target is still alive and well in Rostov._

_He doesn’t want to go into the chair. For the first time ever he fights it; wants to know what is going to happen to him; wants to know his name. A newer HYDRA recruit who happens to be touring the facility is the one who finally gets him to obey the order._

_“We want to help you,” the man, Pierce, says gently. “Just like you’ve helped us. Let us help you forget. Everything will be better once you’ve let yourself forget.”_

 

***

 

Steve is still unsuccessfully trying to salvage his socks in the bathroom sink when Natasha looks in and reminds him that it’s not the 1930s anymore.

 

“Seriously Steve, let them go,” she says.

 

He’s getting ready to start up with another jibe when he turns around and sees her sitting on the guest bed fiddling with her hair. She looks upset and a little skittish, like there’s something crawling under her skin and she’s going to run if she can’t make it stop.

 

“You okay?” He asks, because he’s not sure how to vocalize “please don’t leave me” without sounding pathetic.

 

She shrugs and is quiet for a minute as he comes to sit beside her. Finally she says,

 

“I joined SHIELD because I wanted to go straight. I didn’t want to get out of the business – honestly it’s the only thing I know, but I wanted to be a part of something I could be proud of. I wanted to use my talent to right some of the wrongs that I’d done. Now I don’t know what I was doing. I don’t know if I made anything better or if there’s even more blood on my hands now. I can’t tell the difference anymore.”

 

“There’s a chance you might be in the wrong business,” Steve says, smiling when she rolls her eyes at him and the tension eases.

 

“I owe you, you know,” she says. “I would have died in New Jersey if you hadn’t been there.”

 

“Well I couldn’t let you die on your honeymoon,” Steve says, seriously. “That would have been tragic.”

 

She laughs before sobering a little and looking at Steve cautiously.

 

“If it had been down to me, if _I_ had been the one who had to save _your_ life, would you have trusted me to do it? Be honest.”

 

“These days?” Steve says. “Absolutely. It took me a while to come around though. And you don’t need to tell me to be honest, Romanoff. I’m always honest.”

 

“Oh, always?” Natasha says, smiling again but there’s something hard in her voice. “That’s cute.”

 

“I am,” Steve insists.

 

“Steve,” Natasha shakes her head. “Just because you can’t tell a lie doesn’t mean you can’t be a liar. And you are, just like me. I’m not good at tricking people because I make things up – you get that, right? I let people lie to themselves, and then I don’t bother to correct them.”

 

“I don’t do that,” Steve says, but guiltily because she really does have a point, and now he feels _really bad_ that it’s taken him so long to warm up to her, especially when she says it that way.

 

“Tell that to the laundry list of disappointed women I’ve tried to set you up with because you forgot to mention you liked men,” Natasha says. “And just because I haven’t memorized your file by heart doesn’t mean I missed the bit about how you grew up in an orphanage.”

 

“Which I did,” Steve says, but his shoulders sag because, yeah. He was wondering if she was going to bring this up.

 

“And how old were you when you were sent to the reform school?” Natasha asks. “Because I’m pretty sure most documentaries miss that. Your file certainly did.”

 

“Eleven,” Steve sighs. “I was eleven. It’s where I met Bucky.”

 

“They sent you there because you kept hitting kids for being mean to other orphans, didn’t you?” Natasha asks, but it’s not really a question. She leans into him and leans her head on his shoulder when he smiles and looks at his bare feet.

 

“You’re heartbreakingly predictable,” she says, sadly.

 

Really sadly, actually. Steve pulls away a little to look at her, and is slightly horrified to see her eyes are clouding over, just slightly.

 

“Are you okay?” He asks again, not quite masking the alarm in his voice.

 

She fiddles with her necklace again and doesn’t look at him.

 

“I wish you would have just told me,” she says. “I’m not mad that you didn’t, and I’m glad you felt you could tell me anything at all, but…”

 

“Natasha?” Steve prompts.

 

“You felt safer talking to a stranger than you did talking to me,” she says. “I mean, Sam’s great, and all that stuff you said he does with veterans means he must be a great person to talk to, but I just thought we were closer than that.”

 

“I’m sorry – “ Steve starts, but Natasha cuts him off.

 

“Don’t apologise,” she says. “Don’t make me feel _worse_ , Rogers. Your past is _yours_ , you’re not obligated to tell me anything about it. It’s not your fault if I’m feeling sorry for myself.”

 

“Well, since you brought it up,” Steve says, cautiously. “I’m not entirely sure why you would _want_ to know about my shitty childhood.”

 

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “I don’t think I minded that much until I sorted out that you must have been talking about Barry’s School for Boys.”

 

“How did you know that?” Steve asks.

 

“A reform school with a body count in Brooklyn,” Natasha says. “There was only ever one school that fit that bill. Every insomniac knows that. The documentary about how it got closed down has been on Netflix for ages.”

 

“It was closed down?” Steve says, trying to keep his voice level and not entirely succeeding.

 

“You didn’t know?” Natasha says, finally looking at him, genuinely upset as she reaches up to brush her fingers through his hair. “Oh, Steve.”

 

“I guess I knew it wouldn’t be exactly the same,” Steve concedes, pointedly not moving away from her hand. “But I mostly just thought the name would have changed a few times.”

 

“I think it’s an office building now,” Natasha says. “It’s a historical landmark so it’s not going to be taken down any time soon, but the school hasn’t been around for decades. Humanitarians pretty much ran them out of town with their tails between their legs. A lot of people went to jail, if they were still able to face charges, or if they were still alive. It was an old school, lots of people to prosecute.”

 

Steve mulls that over for a long time before he asks,

 

“Why does the school make a difference to you? Because you watched a documentary one night?”

 

“Because I watched a documentary and ended up breaking into Clint’s house at three in the morning to sleep on the floor next to his bed,” Natasha says, pulling away finally to lean back and stare up at the ceiling. “It wasn’t like it was a documentary about abused child spies with low life expectancies, but seeing all those traumatized kids essentially held hostage by a government institution struck a chord with me.”

 

“In my defense, you never really talked about your childhood, either,” Steve says, lying down beside her. “Not before you had to.”

 

She sighs.

 

“I guess sharing doesn’t really come easy to either of us,” she says, finally. “It’s just that there’s a part of me that wishes we could do it a little more often.”

 

“There’s nothing to say we can’t work at it from here on out,” Steve says. “I’ll try if you will.”

 

“Deal,” she says, throwing an arm over her eyes. “But don’t let’s start right now. Talking about feelings is _exhausting_.”

 

Steve hums in agreement and closes his eyes, too. Beside him Natasha’s breathing evens out and gets deeper, and the rhythm drags him along after. They don’t wake up until Sam loses patience and comes back into the room to wave bacon under their noses.

 

***

 

_ Havana, 1983 _

_He’s in Cuba monitoring the movements of some of the American expats when one of them mentions the recent arrest of one of their number, for public intoxication. It’s useful information, since the Soldier is there to assassinate one of the more prominent expats, who is currently also in jail for assaulting an officer. At least now he knows he shouldn’t shoot the first person who speaks with an American accent, at any rate._

_The drunk – Simon – is a feckless sort of person, to hear the other expats talk: weak-willed and spineless until he gets too many drinks in him, which is when he likes to hit children and kick dogs. If he can catch them. (“Old Rice isn’t as mobile as he used to be.”) It seems like he caught up with one of these two options after a trip to the bar last night and caused quite the disturbance. Today he is paying the price._

_Echoes of laughter ring in the Soldier’s ears, but they don’t come from the bug he’s planted in the cafe. It’s a faint memory, older than any mission the asset can recall, and it sounds cruel. He feels the old stirrings of anger again, still uncharacteristic but no longer disorienting after all this time, and accepts that he is going to end up breaking the rules one more time._

_Before he checks the more secure holding facilities, he goes to the drunk tank to get a better look at Simon Rice. He is still inebriated and when he opens his eyes to see the soldier, he pales and seems to recognize him. This makes the Soldier angrier, and it’s an abrupt spike of rage that doesn’t feel detached this time. For once, he thinks he might be experiencing his own anger and not someone else’s._

_That this man, with the decades old spiteful laugh might know him better than he knows himself is unthinkable. He shoots Rice rather than giving him a chance to speak – execution style, right between the eyes. He punches the wall, twice, with the metal hand and then forces himself to take a slow, deep breath. Only then does he go to complete the task he’s been assigned to do._

***

 

_At first HYDRA is upset, especially when he won’t give an explanation for his actions. However, once the news reaches the US it doesn’t take long for them to change their tune. The media twists the facts into a story of cold-blooded murder at the hands of Cuban authorities. They say the men were targeted because they were former Americans, because they were openly critical of the Cuban government. There are rumours that one never spoke out against the government at all, that his only crime was associating with someone who did._

_It is a dangerous time to be an American on foreign soil, experts warn in countless interviews. People on the streets are talking about the possibility of nuclear war again, and glancing nervously at anyone who speaks with a foreign accent. A resolution to the Cold War has never felt further off._

_The asset, it would seem, took an unnecessary risk, and for that he will be punished. But still, it was an unnecessary risk that paid off. The additional assassination is included in the reports as little more than a footnote to the main action. No further action is taken._

 

***

 

“It’s contaminated SHIELD on all levels,” Steve says. “When Fury said not to trust anyone that’s what he meant. It wasn’t Pierce who got Zola’s algorithm onto a boat full of pirates, and it wasn’t the Strike team either.”

 

“Sitwell,” Natasha says grimly, even as she shamelessly steals bacon from Sam’s plate. “He must be pretty high up the food chain to have been working directly with Zola. Well, as directly as one can work with Zola.”

 

Steve frowns. He’d always liked Jasper Sitwell, but when it comes down to choosing between being Sitwell’s friend and stopping HYDRA, well…

 

“We _have_ to find out what that algorithm is being used for. We’re going to have to go after Sitwell,” Steve says. “In broad daylight. While we’re the two most wanted people in Washington.”

 

“Another boring day at the office,” Natasha says, pleasantly.

 

“You two really like complicating things, don’t you?” Sam says, shooing Natasha away when she goes for more bacon.

 

“You have a better idea?” Steve asks.

 

“You could say that,” Sam says, reaching across the counter to pull a thick file folder from a laptop bag so he can toss it in front of Steve.

 

“What’s this?” Steve asks.

 

“Right now it’s a resume,” Sam says. “I’ll get this Sitwell guy for you.”

 

Natasha, who is already leafing through the file, makes an impressed noise,

 

“You didn’t say he was a para-rescue.”

 

She picks up a picture of Sam next to someone who must be Riley and frowns a little.

 

“So what’s your plan? You think jumping out of an airplane over D.C. is going to help us corner Jasper?”

 

“Not exactly,” Sam says, taking the files from her and pulling out another picture for them to look at.

 

“I thought you said you were a pilot,” Steve says, a little accusingly.

 

“You might have thought it, but I didn’t say it,” Sam says, smirking a little.

 

“You said this didn’t make you happy anymore,” Steve says, gently. “You said you couldn’t see the point now. Sam, I can’t ask you to do this. I can’t put you back in that position.”

 

“You’re not holding a gun to my head, Steve,” Sam says, and it’s been a long time since Steve has spoken to someone who can read his insecurities so well. “I’m doing this because Captain America needs my help. That’s the kind of sign I kept waiting for after Riley was gone. In fact, back then I’d say Captain America telling me the world needed me would have been about the only thing that would have made me change my mind. There’s no way I’m going to let the two of you do any of this alone.”

 

“Fair enough,” Steve says before looking down at the spec sheet he’s holding in his hand. “You don’t happen to keep a spare set of these in your gym locker, do you?”

 

“Yes,” Sam says. “If by gym locker you mean Fort Meade behind three heavily guarded gates and a 12-inch steel wall.”

 

Steve glances at Natasha, who is already hard at work sliding an alarming amount of guns and knives gotten from god-knows-where into hidden holsters and pockets all over her person.

 

“I’m getting the impression that won’t be a problem,” he says.

 


	8. Vexed to Nightmare, Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel more and more like the entire second half of this story could be called Sam Puts Up With A Lot Thanks To His Weird New Friends, but no matter. New chapter!
> 
> Slight warnings for Natasha's childhood, because she was raised by evil people. There is no actual sexual abuse, but the possibility that it might happen is clearly an acceptable risk for her handlers. And speaking of Natasha, in an effort to make her comic back story and her MCU back story match, her romance with Bucky obviously had to be tossed and replaced with something else. I have to say I enjoyed writing this current dynamic between them far more than I ever anticipated.
> 
> The briefly mentioned Canadian orphanage sex abuse scandal was a [real thing](http://www.heritage.nf.ca/law/wells_gov_mt_cashel_timeline.html) that happened, and was a clusterfuck of buck-passing that spanned decades. You can read all about it if you're interested and looking to get pissed off.
> 
> Thanks as always to all of you for your comments, and to my beta [Moments of Weakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness).

 

 

 

_ Tomsk, 1989 _

_It’s strange to be woken up not to kill anyone. The Soldier isn’t sure if it’s ever happened before now, but all of HYDRA is restless to implement the next phase of what they call their super soldier program. Apparently, he was only meant to be the beginning._

_The scientists have determined that females respond better to the experimentation process and yield more positive results. They bring in the orphaned girls very young, for reasons the Soldier doesn’t fully understand. Perhaps to eliminate that tendency he has to create his own orders when echoes of his old self break through the fog. Maybe it’s easier to train someone who never has a chance to fully develop a mind of their own in the first place._

_If HYDRA wants to create the perfect mindless vessel, the Soldier thinks the new recruits are off to a fairly good start. The girls are not really little girls at all. They are well-behaved and silent, strongly discouraged from interacting with one another unless they are being directly supervised and monitored. They are not meant to form friendships with one another, they are not meant to socialize unless they are also learning how to exploit the good nature of another person for information. Once the Soldier’s mind is wandering and he wonders what would happen if the girls were to turn what they learn inside the Red Room against all of HYDRA. The thought makes him smile, then he stops and looks around when he realizes what he’s done, hoping no one saw._

_One of the girls is staring at him, though, almost curiously. She looks to be about five years old, with fiery red hair and a calculating gleam in her eye. He matches her gaze with an even blanker expression before he walks away._

***

 

_She is good, the little girl with red hair. She’s the best out all the girls they send to him to train, and he only trains the best they have. The other girls resent this one, he thinks. There are strict instructions to only offer positive words when they are earned and she earns them more than most. They aren’t kind words, but they are the closest these little girls will ever get, and they are starving for it._

_The girls don’t play together, they don’t talk, they don’t laugh, but they are able to function together as a unit. They gravitate towards each other for comfort and for protection. The Red Room is on the lookout for girls who stray from the herd, who sit by themselves, and who don’t have anyone looking out for them. These girls are liabilities, no matter how talented they may be. If they can’t bond they will never survive life as a spy once their chubby cheeks are gone and they need to depend on their social skills to help them survive and avoid suspicion._

_These lonely girls are always the first ones to be selected for a mission on the rare occasion that it requires a spy literally no one would look at in suspicion. The body count for these jobs is remarkably high – the Soldier isn’t sure if it’s because the lonely girls get caught, or if they are just collateral damage. It’s not long before the redhead is always being chosen for these missions – to cartels, to brothels, to the homes of foreign diplomats. Yet somehow, she always makes it back, a little less life in her eyes each time, wearing an expression that no one should have to wear, much less a child._

_The asset is drawn to her, drawn to her loneliness and resignation. It feels like she knows how to fight, but not how to fight for herself, and something about that unsettles him. His mission now is a long one, with many pauses and breaks; there is a lot of time for him to think, and time to calm himself when he thinks too much, before anyone notices there is a problem. It’s allowed him to reach some conclusions. He doesn’t know who he was before all this, but he knows now he was_ someone _– that he was his own person, and not the product of some former master. He knows that when he feels the impulse to act, it must be the ghosts of his old life guiding him._

_Most often, the ghosts push him towards violence, maybe because he has always been this way, or maybe because it is the only way to be heard by the Winter Soldier. But when he is around the girl – Natalia, they call her – it’s different. He sits beside her when they eat, he picks her up when she drops to the ground exhausted as they train, he keeps her out of sight behind him when HYDRA officials come through the facilities looking for a child for the next deep cover operation. And every time it happens, the instinct grows a little stronger; his skin starts to fit a little better._

_No one even notices what’s happening, he doesn’t draw attention to it and neither does she, but before long it becomes the most important thing he can ever remember doing. The feeling he gets looking after someone, no matter how quietly, feels like the only real thing he’s touched in years._

***

 

They’re barreling down the road, Sam behind the wheel in yet another dubiously acquired car when Steve finally decides it’s well past time he embraces the inevitable.

 

“I know we aren’t letting ourselves worry about the Winter Soldier right now,” he says. “Not while there’s so much happening that we need to take care of in SHIELD, but there’s probably something both of you should know. Just in case we run into him, or if it looks like we’ll need to find him after everything’s played out.”

 

Natasha raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

 

“I think there’s a chance that he’s from Brooklyn,” Steve says.

 

“I’ve wondered in the past if he might be American,” Natasha admits. “His strongest language was always English, and the rumours were that he gravitated towards the US when he was left to his own devices. It’s where he took me. But why Brooklyn?”

 

“Because I recognized the name of the man whose grave got torn up,” Steve says, flatly. “He used to be a teacher at Barry’s. I convinced myself at the time that it couldn’t possibly mean anything, and I still don’t think it was directed towards _me_ , because everyone who ever knew I went there is dead, but…”

 

“But you think he may have been another student,” Sam finishes for him.

 

“Natasha, you said the Winter Soldier started to show up in the 60s. That would have been past my time there, but what if he had gone after? Stoller could have easily taught there for decades.”

 

“Was he an instigator?” Sam asks. “In the abuse?”

 

“Not when I went there,” Steve admits. “He barely even participated. But he was always a bit of a pushover around the other teachers; always chose the path of least resistance. Bucky _hated_ him.”

 

There’s a long pause, and then Natasha cautiously says,

 

“Steve, doesn’t your file mention that some of the men you rescued from the 107th had been experimented on by Zola? Was one of them Bucky?”

 

“He was the only one who survived it,” Steve says, cautiously, because deep down he knows where she’s going to go next, and he doesn’t want her to.

 

“The serum Erskine gave you allowed you to survive decades in a sort of stasis without aging,” she says. “Do you think Zola could have given Bucky something similar enough that could have drawn out his life in the same way?”

 

“Shit,” Sam mutters.

 

Steve feels sick but he starts shaking his head almost before Natasha’s finished speaking and this is why he was so reluctant to say anything. He doesn’t want to hear the words out loud like this. He doesn’t want anyone else to make the connections he’s been pretending he can’t see.

 

“No,” he says. “No way. Not a chance. There were no visible side effects from what Zola did to Bucky. Based on what Buck told us after, we decided they were probably testing ways to lower his pain threshold as a future interrogation technique.”

 

“But you guys were busy fighting a war,” Natasha says, gently. “Maybe the effects of whatever they tried to do to Bucky weren’t obvious enough to be noticed with everything else that was happening.”

 

“It’s not possible,” Steve insists. “Even if they managed to replicate the serum somehow, Bucky would never change sides like that. Even if he somehow miraculously survived the fall, he wouldn’t have just started fighting for the bad guys. He wouldn’t have let himself become that.”

 

“Maybe not if he was their prisoner for a few months,” Natasha says. “But if HYDRA found him when he was seriously hurt and vulnerable? Steve, whether the Soldier is James Barnes or not, he’s been with them decades – longer than you or anyone else could have possibly known him. This may be all he knows now.”

 

“You said you thought the Winter Soldier used to be a good man,” Steve says, weakly. “But Buck was a _great_ man. He wouldn’t have let this happen.”

 

“I hate to say this,” Sam says. “But I’ve worked with a lot of POWs, Steve. The one thing you take away from it is that _everyone_ has a breaking point. It doesn’t make them bad people, though. It makes them desperate people.”

 

Steve blinks away tears and looks away, refusing to look at either of them.

 

“That man is not Bucky,” he says. “He can’t be.”

 

“I gotta be honest, Steve,” Sam says, gently. “It seems strange that _this_ is the conversation we’re having with you right now. Shouldn’t we be telling you not to get your hopes up? The man meant the world to you, and now you’re hearing that there’s a chance you could get him back. There’s a chance you could help him.”

 

“If it’s him it means that I left him when he needed me,” Steve says, shakily. “Again. I didn’t make the men go back for the body, even though I wanted to. He fell so far…”

 

“Steve,” Natasha tries, but he cuts her off.

 

“If that _is_ Bucky then it’s my fault this happened to him. It’s my fault they broke him, and it’s my fault he’s on the wrong side.”

 

“It’s no one’s fault except for the people who did it,” Natasha says evenly. “Don’t make this about you, Steve. This is about him. If we get a chance to deal with it at all, it’s going to be about _him_ , whoever he is. I told you before that I didn’t want to believe he’d willingly started fighting for them because despite his history with them he never seemed to be one of them. We need to give him a chance to redeem himself, if he wants it. That can’t happen when you’re sitting in the corner having a breakdown.”

 

“What if it really is him?” Steve whispers.

 

“For one thing, whoever they paid to correct the history books when your sorry ass showed up is going to get some more work,” Sam says. “So far as the rest of it goes? I guess we’ll just have to take it as it comes.”

 

***

 

_ Toronto, 1989 _

_He wishes he was back in Tomsk, but sometimes he is called away from his long-term assignment with the girls to carry out an assassination, when no one else is able to get the job done. Killing is harder when he’s been anchored to one place and awake for a long time. It’s harder to quiet his mind and do what needs to be done. It all makes him feel so tired._

_There had been discussion of sending Natalia with him, to see how the two would work together as a pair, with Natalia serving as a diversion while the asset takes the shot. Their odd little affiliation (it can’t really be called a friendship) has finally started to be noticed, even though no one really knows what to make of it. The Red Room and HYDRA both have watched in bewilderment for months as the Soldier singles Natalia out over and over again: offering subtle encouragement during training sessions; pointing out errors in her work when she practices writing in English; sitting close to her when strange men are on base. He never speaks to her, and she is never seen speaking to him, but still the interest he’s taken in her is unprecedented. In the end though, there never seems to be much point in having them team up. The Soldier simply doesn’t need help to carry out his orders, and no one is willing to expend resources where they aren’t needed._

_His latest target is dead now (drowned in her ornate bathtub with her wrists slit). She is wealthy, but not remarkably so, and she has a history of depression. When they find her body, it won’t even make the local news. No one will miss her, and it makes the Soldier feel a twinge of sadness. He’s been awake for too long._

_There’s a magazine on her doorstep when he leaves in the early morning light. It was there when he arrived (he would never be so sloppy as to eliminate a target when he might be spotted by a sleepy paperboy), but now it is light enough to see the headline: “Renowned New York director weighs in on abuse scandal at Canadian Orphanage.”_

_He doesn’t take the magazine from the step, but several blocks away he casually breaks into a newsstand with his metal hand and pulls out another copy. He’s heard nothing about this scandal, which is unsurprising since he never follows current international events unless he’s worried about a riot breaking out in the middle of one of his missions, but he’s interested all the same. Maybe because of the protective urge he feels whenever he looks at Natalia, he’s not sure. He just knows he wants to find out more._

_When he reads the article though, it’s not the local story that catches his attention. It’s the director, who is known for having once directed a documentary about a school in Brooklyn that was also shut down for the same reason, the married couple who spent decades making it happen, and how little things have changed in the intervening decades._

_“No one wants to protect the children who are unwanted,” the director says. “The campaign at Barry’s School is generally seen as successful, since it got the school closed so early compared to similar schools and orphanages. But even so, none of those former students have received reparations, and only three of the teachers were successfully charged. These places are allowed to go about their business during pointless internal investigations until they’ve had a chance to dispose of all useable evidence. I recently learned that one of the first teachers to ever be implicated at Barry’s retired to Quinta Roo in Mexico. How is that justice?”_

_The Soldier frowns a little, unimpressed by what he reads. He doesn’t remember going to a place like Barry’s School for Boys exactly, but he remembers strong emotions: fear, anger, helplessness. He thinks he must have known someone who went to a place like that once, and maybe that is why he cares about tiny, fierce little Natalia. Why he sometimes looks at her and is terrified that she’ll die before she grows up. He thinks someone must have died at one of these places once, and he thinks the part of him that pushes back against all of HYDRA’s programming still can’t forget it._

_When it’s time to go back to Tomsk, he puts a gun to his handler’s temple, and tells him they will be taking their plane to Quinta Roo instead._

***

 

Natasha pulls out a nail file from her coat pocket as they wait for Sam to collect Jasper. She hums unhappily as she looks at her hands.

 

“I need to stop hiding razors in my false nails,” she says almost to herself. “The real ones look like hell when I let them grow out.”

 

“You can do that?” Steve asks, suspiciously, unsure if she’s messing with him to kill time or if she’s actually serious. “Get extra thick nails that hide weaponry?”

 

“You can get anything done if you go to the right day spas,” she answers, and okay, Steve’s pretty sure she’s teasing him. Maybe.

 

“So,” Natasha says, conversationally and apropos of nothing. “This whole thing with Bucky… you realize that even if we find him, you’re probably not going to get your boyfriend back, right?”

 

“Yes,” Steve says, shortly. “I’m aware, Natasha, thank you.”

 

“Don’t be mad,” she says softly. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, especially with everything Sam was saying.”

 

“They’re not,” Steve mutters, before adding. “I think this is a first for us – you trying to _stop_ me from being interested in someone, I mean.”

 

“Well, I don’t have a good success record,” Natasha says. “If I can’t even set you up with the correct gender, maybe it’s time to retire from matchmaking.”

 

She’s quiet for a moment, before adding uncertainly,

 

“I _have_ been setting you up with the wrong gender, right? I mean, you don’t like both or anything do you?”

 

Steve shrugs.

 

“I really never thought about it. I know I loved Bucky, that’s all. Once or twice I wondered if I could ever learn to feel something for Peggy, if we ended up married, but I don’t know. I had other things on my mind at the time.”

 

Natasha nods, thoughtfully, but then the signal comes from Sam, and Natasha starts up the van as Steve hops out to go get Sitwell as he comes around the side of the building.

 

***

 

“Tell me about Zola’s algorithm,” Steve says, almost pleasantly as he crowds Sitwell backwards across the roof.

 

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Steve,” Jasper says, eyes wide. “Are you okay? You haven’t been yourself lately, Captain. We’re all worried.”

 

“You were launching missiles at us less than 24 hours ago,” Steve snaps. “Cut the innocent act. It’s just embarrassing at this point. What were you doing on the Lemurian Star?”

 

Jasper snorts.

 

“Your interrogation tactics need work,” he says, only slightly stumbling as his feet reach the edge of the building. “You’re the hero America needs, Rogers. You bleed patriotism and fair play. Maybe if you challenged me to a fair fight on a level playing field I’d be a scared, but shoving me off a roof? Hardly your style.”

 

“You’re right,” Steve says, smiling good-naturedly. “It’s not.”

 

He reaches out to playfully nudge at Sitwell’s shoulder, and okay, he understands the pride Natasha and Clint take in their work now, because playing sociopathic good cop/sociopathic bad cop really _is_ fun.

 

“It’s hers.”

 

He steps back quickly as Natasha lunges at Sitwell like a rabid attack dog, just catching a glimpse of Jasper’s terrified face as she kicks him in the chest and sends him careening off the roof.

 

“Oh wait,” Natasha says, turning her full attention back to Steve almost instantly. “What about that guy from accounting? Leo?”

 

“You mean Luke?” Steve asks, gesturing to his face. “With the lip thing?”

 

“So you _have_ noticed!” Natasha says, triumphantly. “He’s cute, right?”

 

“I’m not ready for that yet.”

 

“Is this a Bucky thing, or a piercing thing?” Natasha asks. “Because I know lip rings can be intimidating the first time, but – “

 

They’re interrupted by Sitwell landing back the on roof in a heap. He looks like he may or may not have wet himself before Sam caught him. Steve’s pretty sure he shouldn’t find that as entertaining as he does, but what the hell. He _trusted_ Sitwell.

 

“Feeling any more communicative?” Natasha asks.

 

Apparently, Sitwell is.

 

***

 

_ Tomsk, 1991 _

 

_He stays on his best behaviour for a long time after the incident in Mexico. There had been a lot of talk about putting him back on ice, perhaps permanently. The asset doesn’t know how long he has lived, or how many times he’s been frozen, but he knows the terror that comes over him every time he sees that metal box. He will not risk years inside of it for the sake of learning more about the past – about a man who has not existed for decades._

_He keeps to himself and trains the girls, but finds he can’t help looking after Natalia, even now. She is reserved and closed off, but she’s not self-centered. She notices when he does things for her, like leave an apple from his meal by her tray when he leaves the table at lunchtime, or when he says she is too busy training to go on another mission. She reciprocates the attention, too, in her own little way. A quick twitch upward of the lips that goes unnoticed unless you know to look for it. The way she fearlessly latches onto his arm to use it as a_ barre _when the other girls are scared to meet his eye. She is a remarkable dancer, especially for her young age._

_Most of the girls seem to have one thing they are passionate about in this place. One reads fairy tales voraciously. Another loves The Rolling Stones. One even rides horses.  It seemed odd to him at first, but after a while he noticed that these loves grow stronger after the girls leave their mandatory weekly counseling sessions. He imagines that the sessions have no more do to with counselling than his own time in the chair has to do with debriefing. He assumes it is an attempt to humanize them while still keeping a tight rein on their personalities. Even creativity is controlled in this place. Still it is nice that there is at least one aspect of these girls’ lives that isn’t consumed by murder and death, so he doesn’t try to stop Natalia from going to her counsellor. Instead he only holds his arm steady as Natalia practices arabesques in the training room, happier and more childlike than should be possible in a girl who has seen so much. A girl with so much blood on her hands and not even ten._

_He wants to keep her safe; he wants to take her away and give her a chance to experience something that he himself can’t remember well enough to name. It’s security maybe. Or happiness. Some days, the Soldier thinks he might love Natalia in the way he has seen some parents with their children, or maybe like a sister. Most days, he pushes such thoughts to the side, because the hazy impressions the Soldier gets of his lost life tell him that love is a dangerous thing. People get hurt when love is involved. People are lost and sometimes they can’t be found again._

_Still, it is his feelings for her that make him stop to listen when he overhears a group of men discussing her as he waits patiently to report to Lukin about the progress he has made teaching the girls Krav Maga. Natalia is exceptional in more than just her fighting abilities. She is considered something of a prodigy in subterfuge as well, and he often hears other teachers say her lies are so believable she could convince the people she’s Anastasia. The joke is a popular one; sometimes they even call her Little Romanova._

_A girl is needed for a mission that will require a good deal of lying, it seems. It has to be a child for the job. The target is not marked for death, but may potentially be a crucial and unwitting supplier of information, thanks to his long and suspiciously comfortable relationship with Moscow’s GUVD. He is powerful enough to avoid detainment but still alarming enough that the officers try to keep a wary eye on him. Even when they are instructed to look the other way, the man’s proclivity towards keeping young orphaned children make many people unhappy about the arrangement._

_It has recently come to light that this man keeps carefully guarded information indispensable to the Red Room in his home offices. The Red Room is unwilling to sacrifice the delicate self-governing ecosystem that has been established in Moscow’s power structure. Fortunately, the Red Room also has plenty of little girls who can be offered up to the man as a diversion while his personal belongings are searched._

_“She likely wouldn’t have to do anything with him,” says the man who is visiting their operation specifically to choose which girl is to be taken. “If she keeps her head, and is clever enough to use his lechery against him, she will undoubtedly be able to keep the upper hand without Yakov even knowing she has it.”_

_“And if she can’t manage this?” Lukin asks calmly, not out of concern for the child, but rather for the potential danger it poses to his own plans. “What happens if she is injured?”_

_“He’s not a violent man,” their visitor assures. “He likes it when they cry, but not when they are broken. A worst case scenario would likely involve a short stay in your medical facilities, and perhaps some time in that famed chair I’ve heard about, should the trauma appear to be long-lasting.”_

_Natalia’s acting teacher is the next one to speak,_

_“If it’s tears you’re looking for, Natalia cries like a dream. If she ever bothered to use what she knows on anyone, even here, she would have control of them in a second. As it is, she’s somehow managed to gain a tight hold on our most intimidating asset.”_

_“The Winter Soldier? I find that hard to picture.”_

_“He’s far from infatuated,” the instructor clarifies. “But he endures her and allows her some flexibility in their training regimen. At times it looks like they are playing a game instead of working, which is far more than he allows any of the other girls.”_

_The Soldier doesn’t tense, but something inside of him wants to, because this is untrue. Yes, at times Natalia has asked if she can make adjustments to certain moves by incorporating movements typically associated with ballet, but the asset would welcome that kind of initiative from any of the other girls, too. Doing the unexpected is what will keep most of them alive on a mission, but no other girl has ever asked, perhaps because they are scared of him. Or they don’t want to survive the next mission they are sent out to._

_“They play games?” The visitor sounds dubious now. “I can’t use a little seductress for this mission. Yakov won’t find them alluring unless they’re innocent.”_

_“Games like a child would play,” the teacher assures. “There is nothing seductive at all in Natalia, unless she wants there to be. Besides, I have every confidence in her abilities. If necessary, she could make him see innocence.”_

_The Soldier swallows down a sound of disgust, certain that what Lukin and the others are so eager to present as instinctive deceitfulness is genuine innocence. Underneath all the training, Natalia is only a little child with a fierce fighting spirit that doesn’t deserve to be destroyed for the sake of a few pieces of paper in a file folder._

_He has tried so hard for so long to keep his mind hidden from these people that it takes a surprising amount of effort to abandon his post and leave the offices. He doesn’t want them to find out they’ve left behind pieces of his humanity, that they leave behind a little more each time they don’t bother wiping him back to square one and putting him on the ice._

_But now his mind is crowded with snatches of memories of an office and a large desk, a single folder on top of it. He remembers the hands of a predator and feeling small and scared, even though he understood perfectly what was happening and why. Natalia may be smart, and she may be gifted, but it will not make this mission any less painful for her, even if nothing happens. (Nothing happened to him, he’s almost positive. There are faint memories of a door opening and blue eyes flashing in anger, of small hands dragging him away from the unwanted touches. But there will be no one standing outside the door while Natalia is on this mission; no one to keep her safe if she loses control.)_

_To the asset’s mind, none of the missions the girls are sent on are acceptable risks, but this is one he can’t allow. He wants to find all the children and take them away, turn them loose in different corners of the world with instructions to go into deep hiding – to assimilate into normal lives. But most of the girls don’t trust him, and they don’t have the spark of defiance that encourages them to be creative, or to question orders. In fact, he’s certain there’s only one who will allow herself to be saved at all._

***

 

_As he had hoped, Natalia hadn’t questioned him when he appeared weighted down by ordnance and asked if she would come with him. She only got up from her schoolwork and followed him quietly as he led her towards the visitor’s car. She stands by and watches as he snaps the neck of the driver and crosses her arms, unimpressed, when he tells her to get into the car._

_“Please?” he tries._

_“Why?” She asks._

_“I’m looking for someone,” he says, surprised that he’s telling the truth, because the more he thinks about it, the more leaving her in New York feels like a good idea. “I want you to help me find him, and I don’t want to leave you here. They are talking about sending you on a mission. A dangerous one.”_

_“I’ve been sent on dangerous missions before,” she points out, even as she clambers up into the car._

_“Not like this one,” the Soldier says, and feels overwhelmed by how much he’s saying. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a conversation with anyone. He’s not certain he’s ever said this much to Natalia the entire time he’s known her._

_“But I could do it,” Natalia insists._

_“You shouldn’t have to,” the Soldier says, before slamming his foot on the gas, before the guards curiously making their way towards him can get close enough to see what is happening._

***

 

_The nurses at the long-term care facility think they are a father and daughter. Natalia practises her English and tugs excitedly on the Soldier’s hand as they walk, asking about “grandma” and if she’ll be excited to see them. She flits back and forth so much as they walk, leaning in to ask him questions, pulling his hand close to her body like she wants him to move faster, that no one notices the hand she holds is metal instead of flesh and bone. There is a reason the others wanted her to be a diversion, after all._

_The room is meant to be a shared one, but something must have happened to the other resident because the second bed is empty. The lone man – Douglas – is on oxygen and sleeping fitfully, machines beeping rhythmically beside him._

_“Are you going to kill him?” Natalia asks, curiously._

_“Yes,” says the Soldier. “You should wait by the door.”_

_“You said we were on vacation,” she says. “Why are you killing someone if you’re taking a break?”_

_“It needs to happen,” says the Soldier, thinking about desks and panic and a time when a little boy was too scared to fight back. “He’s a bad man.”_

_Natalia only nods in acceptance, and the Soldier slowly makes his way to the bed. Douglas wakes up as he approaches the bed. The Soldier smiles personably, until he is close enough to reach out and take the call button from the frail hand that clutches it._

_“What is this?” The man gasps, like breathing doesn’t come easily anymore. He glances to where Natalia watches in the doorway. “Who is…”_

_“Don’t look at her,” the Soldier says, and his voice is losing its Russian accent only to be replaced with something more American. “Look at me.”_

_Douglas does so with reluctance._

_“Good,” the Soldier says, nodding. “You keep your eyes on the grown man. I know that’s not as exciting to you.”_

_The old man’s eyes grow wider._

_“Who are you?” He demands. “Who let you in?”_

_“We let ourselves in,” the Soldier says, before asking impulsively. “Don’t you recognize me?”_

_He hopes for a name, or a place, or an explanation of any kind. He doesn’t care if this man is evil, he just wants there to be a person, somewhere, who knows who he is. He wants to be found. He’s not surprised when he isn’t._

_“You’re one of them,” Douglas spits, angry even in his helplessness. “You people can never leave me alone. I’m sorry, alright? I’m an old man now, I’m tired, and I’m sorry.”_

_“You’re lying,” comes a small voice from the doorway. They both turn to see Natalia slowly stepping closer. She looks fascinated, like this is another game to her. Maybe it is, maybe that’s why she’s always been so good at reading people. To her it’s only a game._

_“You say you’re sorry, but you’re only sorry that he got in.”_

_“Little girl,” Douglas says, smiling at her. “You look like a good girl. Go run and find a doctor – tell them I need help. Tell them that a man – “_

_Natalia crosses to the bed and slams the edge of her hand against Douglas’s larynx, her movements graceful and precise. He doesn’t die (she didn’t hit hard enough to kill him, maybe because she’s not_ _strong enough to finish him that quickly). The Soldier looks at her in frustration._

_“I told you to stay in the doorway,” he says. “You shouldn’t have come in.”_

_“He was lying,” Natalia says darkly. “You’re going to kill him anyway, aren’t you? He makes you upset, and you never get upset. I don’t like him.”_

_“You don’t do that anymore,” the Soldier tells her. “We won’t be going back.”_

_“Where will we go?” Natalia asks, ignoring the twitching man beside her._

_The Soldier takes out a knife, holds Douglas down as he tries to sit up._

_“Wherever we want,” he says before bringing the knife down._

_He knows he’s remembering things as he slits open the man’s throat and watches as he drowns in his own blood. He supposes they must be things that happened to him, but they don’t feel like it. Instead he thinks about how Natalia can never be put in that position, that she should never have to feel those things._

_It’s what he’s thinking about days later when the Red Room and HYDRA catch up to them, when Natalia is pulled away from him screaming, already so much more childlike for the short week she was away from them. It keeps him fighting like a wounded wild animal long after she’s disappeared. He doesn’t stop fighting until they force him into the chair and take all the memories away. All that is left behind is emptiness, a sense of failure, and, as always, a faraway sense of dread and anger, locked down and kept beyond his reach._

_He knows when he’s led into to the cryo chamber that he won’t be waking up for a very long time._

 

***

 

For some reason, Steve had thought the second time he met the Winter Soldier, things would be different – that he would speak to the man face-to-face, ask questions, and get a good look at his face. Steve thought he would get answers. And then Jasper Sitwell is literally ripped out of the car on their way to SHIELD headquarters, the wheel is torn right of the steering column of the car, and Steve realizes he may be a bit of an idiot.

 

Before when they faced each other, he mainly ignored Steve and only fought with him enough to get away. Fury had been the only target the man cared about. Looking back on it, even though Steve is sure he would have ended up with a hole in him if he had intentionally stood in front of Fury, just like what had happened to Natasha, the Winter Soldier certainly seemed reluctant to hurt anyone who wasn’t a target. Today, looking at how he barely gives Sam a second glance but repeatedly tries to gun down Steve and Natasha, it’s obvious his mission parameters have changed.

 

Any hopes Steve had of getting the man to talk to him, however faint they may have been, are shot down in a blaze of gunfire. As Steve runs around trying to avoid open spaces and civilians, he can’t help but think about how ridiculous this is, because he hadn’t even _wanted_ to find the Winter Soldier right now. He wanted to stop SHIELD and to take care of HYDRA. He can’t deal with the Winter Soldier now; he can’t risk finding anything out about him that might emotionally compromise him any more than he already is.

 

But on the other hand, this may be the only chance he has. Steve does not plan to be taken out of the running by HYDRA today, but glimpses of the Winter Soldier are few and far between. This could be the last time anyone sees him for a very long time, and as much as Steve needs to keep his head in the game, he’s always been very confident in his ability to multitask.

 

He’s crouched inside the bus he’s been thrown into after being hurtled off the side of the overpass when the shield catches the full force of a grenade. He passes out for a few seconds and it’s quiet when he comes to. Through the window he can see the Winter Soldier still on the overpass, obviously searching for something, but Steve still sees how his head keeps turning back to the bus routinely. Like he’s waiting for any sign of movement, and Steve knows there’s no point in hiding. HYDRA knows exactly where he is.

 

“ _Hey!_ ” Steve shouts as loudly as he can, rolling his eyes at himself even as he speaks, because he feels a very special kind of stupid. “ _Barry’s School for Boys in Brooklyn – does that happen to mean anything to you_?”

 

The Winter Soldier cocks his head in confusion, and he almost looks like a startled puppy. From somewhere up on the overpass Steve thinks he might hear an incredulous “Are you fucking serious, Steve?” shouted from Sam, and then the bus is caught in a hail of bullets from the Winter Soldier. It only eases when something happens to distract him, just after Steve has managed to escape the wreck of the bus. Steve can’t see what it is, but based on the Winter Soldier’s single-mindedness, he’s willing to bet that Natasha has just used his idiocy as a diversion to launch another attack.

 

He doesn’t know what’s happening to Sam, but he doesn’t get a chance to worry about it before he’s fighting off more than a dozen men with guns, including one using a minigun. Steve tries to move in the direction of the minigun, intent on taking it down before it rips a hole in his torso that even the serum will be useless against. It takes a few minutes to figure out that HYDRA agents are falling without him getting near them, but it’s not until the minigun is down that he manages to get a lock on Sam’s location up on the overpass.

 

There are screams from a few blocks away and Steve whirls around, alarmed that Natasha is already so far away so quickly. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to finish off the rest of the agents here and still reach her in time. He doesn’t want her to fight the Winter Soldier alone; doesn’t want to see anyone else die at his hand. Two more agents drop like stones at his right and then Sam is yelling at him to go after Natasha.

 

“I got this!”

 

Steve doesn’t want to leave Sam any more than he wants to abandon Natasha, but before he can argue back, two more explosions sound behind him. The agents here all seem to be scattering, and it’s all too apparent that if the Winter Soldier is going to be beaten, it won’t be a one-person job.

 

By the time he has them in his sights, Natasha is literally riding on top of the Winter Soldier’s shoulders. Her face is hard and determined and Steve feels sick when he realizes she’s trying to garrote the man. Steve may have felt like a fool trying to make small talk with the assassin, but he also knows that Natasha will have tried to do the same thing, and that wouldn’t be trying to take him out if he showed signs of being able to be reasoned with. Whoever this man was, he isn’t the same man who once tried to save her.

 

Once Steve’s gotten even closer he can see that Natasha is bleeding and worse still, she’s showing obvious signs of tiring. The Winter Soldier finally manages to shake her hold and even though Natasha dodges for cover behind a nearby car so quickly she’s almost a blur, Steve still sees her stumble when the assassin manages to hit her in the shoulder. The Soldier begins to stalk towards her, intent on completing his mission, which is when Steve barrels into him at full speed.

 

For a few moments it feels like Steve is caught up in a dream – he’s uncertain if it’s a good one or a bad one. The Winter Solder fights like no one Steve has ever encountered before. His fighting skill is formidable, and Steve thinks that except for maybe when he spars with Natasha, he’s never come up against an opponent who can match him in speed and dexterity like this. There’s more to it than that though. When Steve spars with Natasha, his biggest obstacle is undoubtedly her ingenuity – her tendency to hide aces up her sleeve and use them when he’s not expecting it. What makes fighting the Winter Soldier so surreal is that he seems to be playing cards that aren’t even in the same deck, which frankly is _Steve’s_ style.

 

Steve fights dirty when he goes hand-to-hand with someone – dirtier than anyone would ever expect from the just and honorable Captain America. But Steve Rogers has always been the man inside the Captain’s uniform, and Steve Rogers was raised fighting on the streets and back alleys of Brooklyn. Steve doesn’t fight nice and he doesn’t fight fair, and by the time most people realize this, they’ve already lost.

 

But the Winter Soldier instantly has Steve’s number. He matches Steve blow for blow, senses Steve getting ready to aim a kick at his crotch before Steve’s decided to do it – knows Steve’s tells better than Steve knows himself. And Steve is never caught off-guard by anything the Winter Soldier does, either. Steve sees Brooklyn when the Winter Soldier fights. Not Brooklyn the way it is today, gentrified and tame, but Brooklyn as he used to know it. Somehow, this fight feels more like coming home than anything he’s felt since waking up.

 

For as much as Steve is capable of thinking about anything, he feels an unshakeable sense of dread coming over him. This feels like more than just someone who grew up in the same neighbourhood. The Soldier’s rough fighting style might only add credibility to the theory that they have known similar backgrounds, but the way he knows Steve’s every move speaks to the Soldier knowing _him_. There’s only one person who could ever understand Steve so well – only one person who could be able to sync up to Steve so instinctively.

 

He still refuses to say it out loud until it’s unavoidable, though – when he throws the Soldier hard enough that his mask falls away from his face and lies forgotten on the street.

 

“Bucky.”

 

Steve’s voice is thread and distraught as blue eyes that he thought he would never see again snap up to meet his gaze.

 

Bucky staggers a little, even though he had been standing relatively still. He looks as though he’s in pain, like his carefully constructed world is falling to pieces around him and Steve is his worst nightmare. When he speaks his voice is just as ragged.

 

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

 

And Steve feels his world start to crumble, too.


	9. Vexed to Nightmare, Part Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! I will be writing more one shots for this story and turning it into a small series at some point, because there are still quite a few loose ends that I totally tied up while I was plotting this thing out and dammit I am going to prove it. Plus there is NO WAY I am going to miss out on the chance to write recovery angst. So be on the lookout for that. I may or may not post updates for it on [my tumblr](http://fireflyca.tumblr.com/) when they start to get posted, since I don't think you can subscribe to a series on AO3? At any rate, be on the lookout, if you are interested.
> 
> Sort of warnings for character death in this chapter. Don't worry! It's not a main character or anything, and I don't think it's anyone people are attached to (at least not attached to in THIS story), but yeah. I didn't plan on it, it just sort of happened. Kept happening, actually. Fun fact: I managed to kill said character without planning on it three separate times before my final continuity edit. I figure at that point I should just accept that it was meant to be. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments as I've been writing this, and to my beta [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness), who makes me look like I know what I'm doing.

 

 

 

 

The Soldier remembers. He remembers pain and fear and anger, all bound up and tied together with a small frail body he would sleep next to at night. (A body that also brought relief and peace and happiness – the good emotions seem to come hand-in-hand with the bad ones.) He doesn’t know if that’s normal or not. He doesn’t know if he feels lonely because that body is no longer beside him, or if he was lonely then, too. He doesn’t know, and he knows that the men surrounding him right now are the reason he can’t remember.

 

And he now knows that if they touch him, that if they make him turn around and sit back down in that fucking chair, people are going to die.

 

“Who was the man on the bridge?” He spits out.

 

He spots movement out of the corner of his eye and his metal arm flies out to the side, almost involuntarily. There’s a sickening crack as the scientist who had been edging closer to him with a sedative lands hard onto the arm of the chair and doesn’t get up again, his back bent at an unnatural angle.

 

Outside the room he hears another guard telling someone to stay out – that the Winter Soldier is highly unstable and they can’t risk whoever it is dying over a nonessential weapon.

 

He looks frantically at the men surrounding him, fear momentarily taking over the anger when a childish voice rises up from the echoing blankness of his mind:

 

“ _Just stick with me. I’ll take care of you_.”

 

“I knew him,” The Soldier says, almost to himself, and when he notices the man in front of him twitch at the words, he rounds on him, stalking forward to yell in his face. “I _knew_ him.”

 

The man reaches for a weapon, but the asset grabs the baton before it’s even had a chance to leave its holster, holds it high against the man’s thigh, feels perverse pleasure when he turns the power on and the screaming starts.

 

“I needed him,” the Soldier hisses, so angry he is almost seeing red. “I needed him and you told me to kill him.”

 

“We’re all just following orders,” the man hisses – scared but not cowed. “We do what we’re told – I don’t have anything against you. It’s not about you.”

 

The Soldier pulls the baton back and the man sags in relief.

 

“This is just a job to you?” He asks, suddenly curious.

 

“Yes,” the man grits out. “I’m not in this because I want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

 

“No?” says the Soldier. “This job must be very hard on you then.”

 

“It is today,” the man agrees.

 

“What’s your name?” asks the Soldier.

 

“Rumlow,” the man says, warily. The Winter Soldier doesn’t ask questions.

 

“Rumlow,” the Soldier repeats, nodding. “Tell me, Rumlow, do I have a name, too?”

 

“It’s nothing personal,” the man promises, desperately avoiding the question.

 

“Of course it’s not personal,” the Soldier says. “I’m not a person, am I? You won’t even give me a name.”

 

The man on the bridge gave him a name. When they were dragging him down into the vault, he heard comm chatter about the same man and his friends escaping and making a break for it. Leaving the Winter Soldier behind. Just as he instinctively knows that the man on the bridge is important to him, the knowledge that that man has left him before is there, too. He doesn’t remember when or how, or how often, but he knows it’s happened.

 

The Soldier knows he needed the man once, but he doesn’t know if he still does. Or maybe he doesn’t _want_ to need him, because he doesn’t know if he can handle being left behind again by someone who obviously means so much. All the Soldier remembers is being used and forgotten, and when he looked into the eyes of the man on the bridge, it was like feeling it happen all over again. Somehow, knowing that the man may be no different from the others pushes his anger past futile rage and into reckless violence. He reaches out and grabs Rumlow by the neck, twisting hard. 15 minutes later he is the only one in the vault left alive. No one on the stairs tries to stop him when he stalks past them out into the sunlight.

 

***

 

Nick Fury, Steve decides, is sort of an asshole. He is of course glad the man isn’t _actually_ dead, but it’s hard to look at him and not remember the way Natasha’s breath had hitched when the doctors announced a time of death and covered his body with a sheet. He tries not to make much noise about it, since it’s more important than ever that they don’t get distracted, but he’s only human after all. Going by the concerned glances Sam keeps directing at both him and Natasha, neither of them are doing too well at hiding their feelings.

 

“Why all the secrecy?” Steve finally asks, when he can’t contain himself any longer – sometime after Hill has laid out their plans to take down helicarriers. “Why not just tell us?”

 

“Well,” Fury said, obnoxiously sarcastic. Steve does not approve of his tone. “The trouble with eliminating a secret evil organization that’s using your own secret _good_ organization as a cover it that after a while it gets hard to tell the players without a program.”

 

At Steve’s unimpressed glare, he adds,

 

“I wasn’t sure who I could trust.”

 

They both pretend not to notice Natasha’s wince. Steve decides _not_ to pretend he won’t hold it against Fury later. He knows that it took him time to trust Natasha, too, but now that he does, the thought of anyone hesitating to do so makes him irate.

 

“It wasn’t just you, Natasha,” Agent Hill says, not softly or sympathetically – Agent Hill is much too blunt and pragmatic to be tactful – but like she understands all the same. “Don’t take it personally. We needed it to be believable.”

 

“You don’t think I’m good enough at espionage to convincingly fake my emotions?”

 

“Well enough to trick anyone who doesn’t know the Black Widow personally,” Hill says. “But not well enough to trick anyone who actually knows you – and HYDRA is apparently full of people we know. No one who saw how you raised hell when Barton was taken by Loki would have believed a Black Widow quietly grieving and not investigating what happened. Any attempt on the director’s life had to look successful.”

 

“If my top agents weren’t taking this properly, no one would have believed it was real,” Fury points out.

 

Natasha seems to be relaxing a little at their words and for her sake, Steve hopes they’re true. Fury, meanwhile, is interested in the news about Bucky, although it’s hard to tell if he’s more worked up about the thought of another living Howling Commando, or the fact that SHIELD has played a major part in keeping him captive for so long. It is not, however, the topic of conversation he keeps circling back to.

 

“The man refused the Nobel Peace Prize! Not to mention he was one of my closest friends.”

 

He looks at Steve.

 

“You can criticize me for it all you want, but _now_ do you see why I have trust issues?”

 

Steve works very, very hard to keep his face blank.

 

“You mean because your best friend has been working with your mortal enemies for decades without you ever realizing it? That must have been hard for you. I can’t begin to imagine.”

 

Fury levels a hard look at him for a few moments before deflating and running a hand over his face.

 

“Fair point,” he says. “Maybe we should start a club.”

 

“Sure,” Steve says gamely. “Or incorporate it into the acronym of our next secret government organization.”

 

“Run that one by me again?” Fury says.

 

“Sir, when we take those helicarriers down, all of SHIELD is going down with them. SHIELD, HYDRA – it all needs to go.”

 

There’s a pause after Steve finishes speaking, but then Agent Hill is shifting unhappily and saying,

 

“He’s right, sir. I love working in SHIELD, but rotten is rotten. It won’t do us any good to pretend otherwise.”

 

Fury looks a little desperately at Natasha, who only stares back at him, stoically, and then at Sam, who re-introduces himself as “Slow Captain America” and is no help either. Steve feels for the man, honestly. He doesn’t like the thought of anything being too broken to fix, and it must hurt when that thing ends up being what you’ve poured your entire life into. Not that Steve would know anything about that, either.

 

***

 

_ Krausberg, 1943 _

 

_Steve feels his stomach drop like a stone as the prisoners make their way out of the complex. He’s watching them as they leave, and he’s certain no one is leaving without him noticing but he can’t see Bucky anywhere. He waits a while, tries to convince himself that he just needs to be patient, that Bucky will be there. Finally he can’t take it any longer and he reaches out to catch the shoulder of one of the men trudging past, wincing in sympathy when the soldier startles._

_“I’m looking for Sergeant Barnes. Do you know if he was brought in with you?”_

_The man suddenly has trouble meeting Steve’s gaze._

_“Do you know him?” Steve asks. “Is he hurt?”_

_He can’t bring himself to ask about a more likely possibility._

_“I know him,” the man admits before looking at Steve regretfully._

_“They would take a man every few days – no one knows where to. At first we thought they were being interrogated, but they didn’t seem to consider rank. Sergeant Barnes was the last man they selected.”_

_He hesitates before adding,_

_“I’m sorry. I’m guessing you knew him, too?”_

_“_ Know _him,” Steve corrects. “Make sure all the men get out. I’m going after the missing soldiers.”_

***

_He has had this nightmare since he was young: wandering directionless through seemingly endless hallways; doors locked on all sides, never knowing which he should take the time to force open. He was looking for Bucky then, too. The dreams always end after he forces open one last door to find an empty, dark, cell-like room. A room he has been in before and that he can’t forget no matter how much time passes, no matter how hard he tries._

_“You left,” comes a voice from behind him._

_Steve turns and Bucky is standing in the doorway Steve just came through, only now it leads to another locked room like this one. Bucky’s shirt is ripped and his pants hang open, barely staying on his hips. He looks the same age he was that time Steve pulled him from Mr. Douglas’s office, and now he is covered with bruises and blood. Behind him is another body Steve also recognizes: eyes still open; head still at that awful, unnatural angle._

_“Why did you leave?” the young Bucky asks, and Steve always wakes up before he can answer._

***

 

_He thinks about the dream now as he runs frantically through the HYDRA compound. He’s found a morgue full of bodies – Allied soldiers, and each one looks like he died screaming. Bucky wasn’t with them._

_There are explosions somewhere behind him and Steve knows he should go – take charge of the men he has set free who are going to need all the help they can get – but he can’t leave. He_ can’t. _Not without Bucky._

_He feels like he’s ready to sit down and cry when hears a soft whisper of noise behind him, out of place in the midst of the harsh and violent sounds of war coming from the rest of the base. Steve whirls around to see a small stout man in glasses trying to sneak away with a briefcase. They stare at each other a moment. Frozen._

Zola, _Steve’s mind supplies as he remembers the pictures Colonel Phillips has shown him. This man’s name is Armin Zola. The man runs and Steve is ready to chase him, but a map in the room Zola has just left catches his eye first. He walks inside, trying to get a closer look, intent on committing all the information to memory. Determined to bring down every HYDRA base listed on it. Which is when he hears it: incoherent rambling in a voice he’d know anywhere._

_Bucky is strapped down to a table, blearily repeating his name, rank, and serial number, like they’re the only things left for him in the world. His eyes are dead, just like in Steve’s dream, and Steve has to fight back a shudder as he approaches, reaches out to gently shake the other man’s shoulder._

_“Buck,” he calls. “It’s me.”_

_Bucky goes still and it takes too long for his eyes to focus and find him, but when he does, he leans into Steve’s touch, face lighting up strong enough to brighten the whole damned base._

_“Steve,” he breathes, and he looks hopeful and so childlike it hurts. “You found me.”_

_“Well, that’s what we do,” Steve says, in an attempt to sound cheerful as he reaches over and starts snapping off the leather straps, not even trying to find the buckles. “When one of us screws up, the other one always finds him, right?”_

_Bucky nods in a daze, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet, and the poor guy looks higher than a kite as his neck cranes up until he’s able to look Steve in the eye._

_“I thought you were dead,” Steve chokes out, reaching out to gently touch Bucky’s face._

_“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky says, glancing back at the table suspiciously, like he still thinks he might be laying on it._

_Steve laughs and pulls the other man into a quick kiss, which is somewhat awful, but Steve doesn’t care. Bucky doesn’t seem to either, because he leans into it desperately before allowing himself to be dragged out of the room without a word of protest._

_“What happened?” is all he asks._

_“Joined the army,” is all Steve answers, and Bucky stiffens in his arms, radiating disapproval._

_The way he growls out, “Dumb punk” feels so right that Steve lets out another bark of laughter, letting the relief wash over him even though he knows they’re not out of the woods yet. He has Bucky back, and somehow nothing else matters._

 

***

 

“He’s probably gonna be there, you know?”

 

Steve doesn’t bother to ask who Sam is talking about.

 

“I know,” he says. It’s all he’s been able to think about.

 

“Look,” Sam says, gently. “I know you care about him, Steve. I know for you not much time has passed since you were together, but time _has_ passed. He’s not the same man anymore. You need to be prepared if we get there and find out that he’s become the sort of person who needs to be stopped, not saved.”

 

“I don’t think I can abandon him like that,” Steve says. “Not when it’s my fault he fell in the first place.”

 

“Wasn’t your fault,” Sam says, simply, like he’s not tired of saying it yet. “Don’t you go trying to take on the sins of war criminals, man. We don’t have that kind of time.”

 

“Do you think he remembers anything?” Steve asks, finally. “Do you think there’s a chance that he could? I thought for sure that the Winter Soldier knew exactly who he was, the way he was targeting people when he went off mission, but he looked so scared when he heard his name.”

 

“Could be he’s only remembered the bad things,” Sam says. “That happened a lot with the folks I worked with at the V.A. The ones who could only remember what happened to them in pieces. They’d just get so bogged down with how terrible it was, the only fragments they could call to mind were the worst parts. Even if they’d been laughing or joking or saving the world earlier the day it all started for them, all they could remember was the look on a friend’s face right before their leg blew off, or the way they’d screamed right after. Trauma messes you up, Steve. It changes you.”

 

“We’re pretty used to trauma,” Steve says, contemplatively. “Maybe for once it can be useful and help centre him long enough to start finding his way back.”

 

“Steve…” Sam starts, warily, but Steve waves him off.

 

“I know,” he says again. “I’m not getting my hopes up.”

 

Neither man comment on the obvious lie. Out of gratitude Steve jokingly adds,

 

“So how did Natasha manage to skip this lecture? You know, she apparently has a strong emotional attachment to him, too.”

 

“Who said she missed it?” Sam says. “She just had to hear it back in the Super Secret SHIELD Lair, that’s all, with Fury and Hill singing backup.”

 

“Well I’m sorry I didn’t get to see that,” Steve says, shaking himself slightly and walking back towards the hideout. “Let’s get the others and get moving. It’s time to gear up.”

 

“Are you going to wear _that_?” Sam calls after him, incredulously.

 

“No,” Steve says. “I have something else in mind. Can’t go into battle if you don’t have a uniform, right?”

 

***

 

The first two helicarriers are taken over relatively easily, and without any major hiccups – assuming, of course, that you consider “relatively easy” to mean “not _every_ person you see takes a shot at you.” Sadly, at this point in Steve’s life he sort of _does_ think that’s a pretty good success rate. Plus there’s the fact that he and Sam are dealing largely with the helicarrier crews, and the vast majority of their personnel are confirmed HYDRA agents anyhow.

 

From what he’s been able to glean from Hill up in her fortified control room, things look quite a bit better inside the Triskelion. He smiles when she mentions that Sharon – his not-a-nurse, not-quite-a-neighbour – is organizing counter-attacks on her own initiative and taking down large sections of the Strike team. Whatever ends up filling the power vacuum left in the wake of SHIELD’s destruction, Steve hopes she is a part of it. He might even tell her himself if he gets a chance.

 

He’s just called in his success in decommissioning the second helicarrier, only minutes after Sam has reported his own victory with the first, when Hill’s wary voice comes over the comms.

 

“Cap? It looks like you and Sam may be getting some company.”

 

“Fun company?” Sam asks.

 

“Winter Soldier company,” Hill says dryly. “Something’s not right though.”

 

Before Steve can interject that _nothing_ about the Winter Soldier is right, she elaborates.

 

“He’s as focused and single-minded as ever – only taking people out when they get between him and the third helicarrier – but I don’t think the people trying to stop him are SHIELD. Or not ‘good’ SHIELD, anyhow. I’ve watched him take out a few men from the Strike team, and everyone seems desperate to halt his progress.”

 

“Do you think he’s gone off-mission?” Sam asks.

 

“I have no idea,” Hill admits. “I wish Romanoff wasn’t so busy taking care of Pierce. I think she understands how the Soldier works better than any of us. No offense, Cap.”

 

“None taken,” Steve says, rolling his eyes as he runs to the edge of the second helicarrier. “We haven’t really kept in touch. Sam? Can I get a lift?”

 

“Sure thing, Cap,” Sam says. “Just say the word.”

 

“I just did,” Steve says, as he leaps over the edge of the carrier to dodge a rain of gunfire.

 

“Dammit, Steve,” Sam huffs and for half a second Steve is worried that he’s miscalculated but then Sam is there, grabbing Steve by the arm and damn near dislocating it in the process. Judging by Sam’s frankly excessive screaming that will absolutely be funny when all of this is over, he’s not having the greatest time either.

 

“Thanks,” Steve says, shaking his arm out once Sam’s deposited him on the final helicarrier.

 

“Go on a diet,” Sam snaps.

 

“You’re the one who keeps giving me food,” Steve protests.

 

“If I’m not interrupting,” Hill says, and Steve has never been able to hear someone gritting their teeth when they speak so _clearly_ before. “You boys may want to stop calling each other fat until you switch that last chip. We’re running out of time, and the Soldier is going to be joining you any second, if he’s not there already.”

 

“Next time you may want to lead with that,” Sam says, as both he and Steve break into a run. They don’t make it inside the helicarrier before Hill is back on the comms shouting for backup in the conference room. She only has a feed from Fury, but Steve’s stomach clenches as he hears her say something about the Black Widow.

 

“Is she hurt?” he demands.

 

“No,” Hill says. “But Pierce is detonating explosives he’s somehow planted on the security council and that cover is how we got the Widow in in the first place.”

 

“I’m on it,” Sam says, grimly reaching up to re-activate the wings.

 

“Be careful,” Hill says. “If you barge in through that door with guns blazing he’ll be ready for you.”

 

Sam has already leapt off the side of the helicarrier, but Steve hears the response over the comms anyhow.

 

“What if a beautiful black man flies past his 45th floor window and shoots him in the back of the head? Will he be expecting that? Because in my experience, most people aren’t.”

 

Steve’s hand is reaching for the chip as he races towards the servers. He stops short when he sees Bucky standing in front of him, waiting. His face is expressionless but he’s holding himself tenser than Steve remembers the Winter Soldier being. He wishes he knew if that meant anything.

 

“People are gonna die, Buck,” he says, cautiously. “I can’t let that happen.”

 

“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” Bucky spits, and it _is_ Bucky – or at least, it’s not the Soldier anymore. Truthfully, Steve isn’t sure if he knows the man standing in front of him at all.

 

“I need to do this,” Steve tries again. “Are you going to let me?”

 

A muscle twitches in Bucky’s face, but he doesn’t back down.

 

_Shit_ , Steve thinks, but it’s all the emotion he allows himself before he throws the shield.

 

The fight is as intense as it was on the overpass, but now Steve is feeling the weight of the Soldier’s almost unhinged rage and he has to fight back the urge to panic. He doesn’t understand where Bucky’s head is at and he’s distracted enough that he’s almost thrown from the catwalk several times. After a few minutes that Steve doesn’t have to spare he finds enough of an opening to gain the upper hand – just long enough to knock Bucky over the side.

 

He doesn’t fall the whole way, and his scramble to get back onto the catwalk only takes about 30 seconds but it’s enough for Steve. Almost. He’s tucked the old chip away with the one from the second helicarrier and is taking out the replacement when it happens: a gunshot. Steve’s body is jerked around by the impact and the new chip drops to the floor.

 

Bucky holsters the weapon before advancing. He drags Steve up by the collar and demands,

 

“Why now?”

 

“Bucky,” Steve gasps, as the pain burns up his side and into his gut. “Please, you’re better than they are – innocent people are going to die if we don’t stop them.”

 

“I’m not doing this for _them_ ,” Bucky says, glancing to the chip for a fraction of a second before slamming Steve’s head against the ground. “I’m doing it for me.”

 

He drops Steve to the ground and picks up the chip. For a second, Steve is convinced that Bucky is planning to crush it with his metal hand, but Bucky just stares at it before quietly asking,

 

“They want to kill more people?”

 

“Millions,” Steve says.

 

Bucky’s face twitches again before he turns suddenly and slams the chip into place.

 

“Okay great,” Steve hears Hill say in his ear. “Acquiring new targets. Cap, you gotta get out of there. As soon as they see the new targets they’ll be looking for you. We can’t wait.”

 

Steve ignores her. In front of him, Bucky is leaning over the control panel, head bowed and tremors running through his whole frame.

 

“Bucky,” he says, softly, and that’s all it takes to set Bucky off again.

 

“ _I told you to stop calling me that_!” He screams. “ _I don’t even know who you are_!”

 

“I’m your friend,” Steve says faltering as he staggers to his feet. He doesn’t know what else to say. They never said the word “boyfriends” when they talked about what they were. “I’m just… I’m yours.”

 

“Then where _were_ you?”

 

Steve feels a foot hit the middle of his chest and he’s airborne before he even realizes what’s happened. All the air is forced out of his lungs as he hits the lower levels of the helicarrier, his shield digging painfully into his back.

 

“Cap,” comes the frantic voice in his ear, shouting at him now. “Get out _now_.”

 

“Just fire,” he gasps out. “Don’t worry about me.”

 

Bucky is dropping down towards him as he leaps down the scaffolding in increments. Steve listlessly watches his progress as Hill – _Maria_ – falters,

 

“But, Steve…”

 

“Do it now!” Steve barks.

 

He’s leaving with Bucky or he’s not leaving at all, but whatever way this pans out, they can’t afford to wait. He doesn’t have to wait long to find out if she’s done it. There’s a large explosion that reminds Steve of Dernier and the Commandos.

 

The entire helicarrier starts shaking like it’s threatening to come apart and Bucky loses his footing, falling the rest of the way to Steve. He’s favouring his flesh and bone shoulder when he stands and Steve can’t help blurting out,

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Bucky looks sick and confused as he stares at him, like Steve is an unfathomable and infinite source of pain.

 

“Why do you care?” he asks, tired.

 

Beneath them, the helicarrier groans as it starts to tilt in the sky.

 

“I’ve always cared,” Steve whispers.

 

“You never came,” Bucky says, eyes welling up. “I only ever wanted… I think I wanted to be real but everyone forgot about me instead. _I_ forgot about me.”

 

“I could never forget you,” Steve says, honestly.

 

He gets a metal fist in his face for his troubles.

 

“ _Then why did you leave_?”

 

Bucky is screaming again, punctuating each word with another punch. They narrowly avoid being pinned by some falling scaffolding but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice.

 

He pauses for a moment, and even though Steve’s face is starting to feel like hamburger at this point, he takes the opportunity to say,

 

“I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m so, _so_ sorry. I never would have left if I thought you were still alive.”

 

“You’ve done it before,” Bucky says, accusingly, but he stands and takes a step back when he says it.

 

“Yeah,” Steve admits, wincing as he slowly gets to his feet, too – ready to start chasing if he needs to, although he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to keep up. “And until the day I didn’t go back to find your body, it was the biggest mistake I ever made.”

 

The bottom is starting to fall out of the helicarrier all around them. They need to move, but instead Steve just reaches out and drops his shield out one of the openings, letting it fall into the Potomac.

 

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, sharply.

 

“I’m not gonna fight you, Buck,” Steve says, softly. “I only hit the bad guys, remember?”

 

The helicarrier lurches beneath them, causing them both to stumble. The ensuing noise from the carrier isn’t quite loud enough to mask the broken noise that comes out of Bucky. His eyes are wild when he finally looks at Steve again. Terrified.

 

“I don’t know who you are,” he says, almost whimpering, and Steve can’t tell if he is blaming Steve or asking for help. “I don’t know who _I am_.”

 

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve says. “And I love you. Please James, I’ve lost you so many times. Let me help you now. I’m not gonna let you get away from me again – I’m with you ‘til the end of the line. Remember that?”

 

He’s taking a tentative step forward when the floor beneath him finally gives way completely. The last thing he remembers seeing is Bucky’s horrified face as it rapidly disappears from view. The last thing he remembers thinking is that it’s no easier being the one who is falling.

 

***

 

He wakes up shivering, and to the painful sensation of someone pressing on his chest so hard it feels like his ribs may break, if they haven’t broken already. One of the hands on him is freezing cold. His eyes flutter open of their own accord and his hand reaches up to catch hold of one of Bucky’s, who promptly tries to shake it off and keep going.

 

“It’s okay, Buck,” he rasps out. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

 

Bucky lets out another terrified, childlike sob and chokes out,

 

“Please don’t leave me again.”

 

Steve reaches up and shakily catches Bucky by the back of the neck, pulling the other man on top of him, stubbornly ignoring the pain, even though Bucky is obviously avoiding resting any weight on him.

 

“It’s okay,” Steve says again. “Stay with me, it’s okay.”

 

“You’re _hurt_ ,” Bucky says, voice small and somehow still accusing, like he doesn’t remember he’s the one responsible and who knows? Maybe right now he doesn’t.

 

“Yeah well,” Steve keeps his voice conversational as he pets at the base of Bucky’s skull. “Some fights you just can’t let yourself walk away from.”

 

“Steve?” Bucky asks, and he sounds disoriented, like he’s trying out the name to see if it will fit.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s temple. “I’m right here.”

 

Nearby smoke is billowing into the sky from the razed Triskelion. Debris is still falling from the sky, and the sounds of screaming and sirens fill the air. Blood still oozes out of Steve’s stomach wound at a rate that will quickly become a problem unless he’s able to get some help. He’s not even sure if Bucky really remembers him or if he’s just turning to Steve out of his desperation to be found. But Bucky _is_ remembering, and he _doesn’t_ want to be alone anymore and that’s enough of a start for Steve.

 

Steve closes his eyes and against all logic finds himself trying to hold back a smile. Right now there is literally no other place he’d rather be.


End file.
